File 0: REDACTED
by Q. Alias
Summary: [Complete] [Alternate timeline] RETRIEVING FILES... SUCCESS. Data regarding Subject 014 Harman and Alexia Ashford during 1983 testing phase of Project Wesker. May provide useful insight into Alexia Ashford's early research. Further data is restricted, or could not be retrieved. Terminating connection.
1. Part One - An Invitation

**Downloading Video Logs...**

* * *

His father put the hose down to map out the new flower-bed, sweat dripping down the slope of his nose, his shirt and jeans caked with black dirt because it had rained last night, and the soil had still been damp.

"Bring the tarp over here, Grayson." His father's tanned face was a Hollywood composite of the Golden Age's best leading men, his eyes the precise gray of rain clouds. Grayson had often heard women say how handsome his father was, and then they would rattle off names: _Errol Flynn_ , _Gary Cooper_ , _Rock Hudson_...

Grayson put the plastic tarp down, and his father hammered the sod staples into the soil, so the tarp would not curl. Then Grayson ripped open a bag of compost and dumped it onto the plastic, and started to spread it out. The sun was beating down on him, and the air was jungle-humid and oppressive. His shirt was soaked around the armpits and neck, and he had gotten tired of it, so he took it off and tossed it somewhere.

He made a hole with his hand, slightly bigger than the hibiscus his father was planting, and piled the soil around the roots so water would not sit and drown the plant. "You seen Alexia at all, dad?" he asked, taking a small break to enjoy a bottled water from the little plastic cooler his father had kept nearby. He drank greedily, sitting in the shade of a palm tree.

His father finished planting another hibiscus, then joined Grayson in the shade, fishing another bottled water from the cooler. He shook his head. "Nope. Probably busy with work."

"She's working a lot more than usual," said Grayson, kicking off his shoes. Alexia was thirteen-years-old, and busier than the average adult.

"She just got that new promotion," said his father, wiping his face on his wet shirt. "Probably keeping her busy."

Alexia came up the flagstone walkway, and she was looking at a letter, the Umbrella logo stamped on the envelope. She wore an argyle sweater-vest, a pleated black skirt, and a hairband of printed silk. The design on it might have represented flower garlands, or creeping vines.

"Spencer is having a company meet-and-greet at his home in the United States," she said, without looking up from the letter. Alexia looked like the sort of girl who might have decorated propaganda posters for the Hitler Youth. She had a bored Nordic face, and her hair was the sort of white-gold blonde that belonged on dead Hollywood starlets.

"Who cares?" said Grayson, and shrugged, digging his toes into the grass, which was cool and damp.

Alexia looked at him. Her eyes were the pale color of hoarfrost. "Where is your shirt?" she asked, turning pink.

Grayson grinned and got her in a playful headlock. "It's all sweaty like me," he said, and laughed.

Alexia elbowed him in the side, and he let go. "Gross," she said. His sweat had soaked her sweater-vest, so Alexia took it off. She wore a white blouse underneath with a rigid arrow-collar, and a thin black tie. "Now my vest is all disgusting. Thank you for absolutely nothing, Grayson."

Grayson clapped her on the back and said, "No problem." He shrugged, grinning. He went back to the flower-bed and started to put down the mulch, while his father hooked up the hose and brought it over.

"Dinner's at six o'clock sharp, kiddo," said his father, looking at Alexia. His father was the only adult Alexia permitted to talk to her like a dad, or call her things like kiddo. "You tell your brother that. You both come dragging your asses in a half-hour late again, I'm tossing your dinners to the birds."

"This is _my_ house, Scott," said Alexia, frowning.

"I look like I care, kiddo?" said his father, flashing a white magazine smile. "We eat at a specified time here. Not when you feel like it." He patted Alexia on the head, messing her hair and laughing. His father was enormous and dark compared to Alexia, a sun-tanned ex-marine, and a former steel-worker who had come from blue-collar America.

"Fine," said Alexia, rolling her eyes.

"Don't let this promotion go to your head, kiddo," said his father, turning to water the flowers. He lit a cigarette with his free hand, blowing smoke. "You're still my little girl. I changed your diapers, and your brother's. Fed you mushed peas and struggled to put your asses down for a nap. You think Alexander did all that?" His dad laughed, as if the thought of Alexander doing any of that had been the punch-line to some hilarious joke.

"I remember this one time I was, like, five," said Grayson, wiping the dirt from his hands on his jeans. He took the hose from his dad and started to water the lilies. "Alexia was three, I guess, and she threw up all over my shirt."

"Can we not discuss that?" said Alexia, scowling. She grabbed his arm. Then she said, "Scott, I'm borrowing Grayson for a bit."

His dad blew a cloud of smoke, then scratched his head. "I guess you can take Grayson," he said, the cigarette smoldering between his teeth. "We're pretty much done out here anyway. Just remember what I said about dinner, Alexia."

Alexia dragged him away. The land around the estate was a private garden, though beyond the wrought-iron fence that surrounded the property was manicured jungle, where professional gardeners in dirty coveralls tended the plants, and moved wheelbarrows of compost and mulch between flower-beds, gibbering in fast Spanish, their sun-browned skin slick with sweat.

There was a path that led down to a sheltered beach, and they walked it. The gardeners ignored them. "I'm admittedly a little nervous about this meet-and-greet," said Alexia. "I still haven't met many of my colleagues."

Grayson pushed his hands inside his pockets, the dirt cool under his bare feet. "Be a chance to connect, right?" he said, looking at her. "Network, and all that shit."

"You know I already have a rival?" she said, smiling.

"Uh-oh," said Grayson, and laughed.

"His name is William Birkin. I haven't met him yet," said Alexia, side-stepping a small colorful frog who had decided to sunbathe in the middle of the path, and who was probably poisonous. Grayson reasoned that there must be some universal equation: for every degree below the equator, things became more poisonous and colorful.

A parrot watched them from the branch of a banyan tree, preening. "And he would have still been the youngest employee, if it hadn't been for the meddling kid," he said, grinning.

Alexia playfully shoved him. "Shut up, Grayson."

They arrived at the beach. Sometimes the locals would come here from the nearby village of Pueblo de San Lucia, which had been founded by Spanish missionaries. There were a few kids kicking an old soccer ball in the sand, and when they saw Alexia, they moved away from her, further down the beach. Their parents tended crab-traps in the shallows, or mended nets with calloused brown fingers, and they pretended that Alexia and him did not exist.

Grayson knew that the locals did not like the Ashfords. The Ashfords were rich Europeans who had bought their island, and then had put them to work. He did not know the details of what sort of work they did, but knew it had been enough to make them hate Alexia's family, and hate the Umbrella Corporation.

They sat in the sand. Grayson watched a kid about his age out on the water, riding a surf-board that looked as if it had been homemade, ocean-spray shimmering silver-blue in the sunlight. "I always wanted to try surfing," he said aloud.

"The waters here are filled with sharks," said Alexia, sitting beside him. "In fact, there was a great white attack a few weeks ago. Supposedly, the thing was huge. Jaws-huge. Killed a local boy, or something. Ripped his leg off, and he bled to death on the beach." She didn't seem to notice, or perhaps she didn't care, that the locals were staring at her.

"Ouch," said Grayson, rubbing his leg as a phantom pain shot up it.

"I think I'm going to have this beach gated off," said Alexia, though she seemed to have been talking more to herself than to him. Then she said, "So about this party Lord Spencer is throwing? You're coming."

"Why?" he asked. "I'm not a scientist."

"I'm allowed to bring two guests, so I'm bringing you and Alfred."

"Why not your dad?"

"Because I'm not inviting the idiot. Simple. He's a running joke within the company," she said. Alexia had never liked her father, though Grayson had no idea why, and had never cared enough to ask.

"What about my dad?" he asked.

"He'll drive us there," said Alexia. "I have to talk to him about it. We'll be staying in Raccoon City."

"Never been to Raccoon City," said Grayson.

"It's nothing really. I visited once when I'd toured the Arklay lab." Alexia looked at him. "William Birkin works there, though he wasn't in when I'd visited," she said. "His partner Albert Wesker showed me around the facility. I'd even met James Marcus, which was unusual. The man is practically a hermit."

"Wasn't he your grandfather's friend?"

Alexia nodded. "There are rumors in the family that they were a little _more_ than friends, if you catch my meaning. It was an utter scandal, so I'm told. Great Uncle Stanley was turned into the family pariah because he had been too loud about it. Of course, this all came from my Great Aunt Catherine, and the old woman's practically senile."

"Explains why nobody talks to Stanley," said Grayson. He had met Stanley once, about a year ago, and had hated the guy. He was Edward Ashford's younger brother, and one of those old guys who could not go a millisecond without ridiculing something, and always somehow managed to steer a conversation into political territory. They could be talking about puppies, and Stanley would somehow turn it into a rant about communist conspiracy plots, or Illuminati Globalism.

"So you'll go?" asked Alexia, looking at him.

Grayson nodded. "Didn't have to drag me all the way out here to ask," he said, grinning. "But sure, I _guess_ I can keep you company." Truthfully, he was more than happy to go with Alexia. He had been crushing on Alexia since he had first learned what a crush was, but had been too nervous to tell her.

"I dragged you out here because I wanted you to myself for a bit," said Alexia, smiling. She looked at the sea. "You're my closest friend, Grayson. Besides, I like this beach." She watched the kids kicking the soccer ball, in the shade of the palm trees. Then, "Though I really do think I'm going to gate it off."


	2. Part One - The Spencer Estate

They flew out to Raccoon City a week later and checked in at the Hilton, a few blocks from the airport. It was early February, so it was cold, and it was the dry kind of cold that hurt his skin and made his lips crack. The trees were gray skeleton things under a dry blue sky. They were sitting in the back of a rented black Mercedes. His father drove and fiddled with the radio, complaining that there was nothing good on, occasionally commenting on something interesting he saw along the highway: once, it had been a small unmarked graveyard, and another time it had been a flock of crows tearing bloody strips from the rib-cage of a dead buck.

Alfred sat on Grayson's right, and had been mostly silent, listening to a Richard Wagner tape on his Walkman. Alexia sat on his left, and had disappeared behind a battered paperback of _The_ _Kreutzer Sonata_.

The newscaster on the radio said that there might be snow coming tonight. Grayson wasn't looking forward to that; he had heard horror stories about mid-western winters, and did not like the idea of possibly being snowed-in at the Spencer estate, way out in the middle of the Arklay boondocks. He glanced at Alexia, who read her book with intense concentration, her mouth a thin line. He decided to strike up conversation.

"So you've been to the Spencer estate?" he asked.

"When I visited Arklay," she said, and nodded, turning a page.

On the radio, _Billie Jean_ started to play. "Dad," said Grayson, leaning forward. "Turn it up. I like this song."

His father turned it up. Alfred must have heard it over his headphones. He took them off and put them around his neck, scowling as if someone had just rudely interrupted him. Then he said, "Scott. Turn it down. I don't want to listen to this crap." Alfred was Alexia's reflection, if her reflection had been male. His hair was the same Jean Harlow blonde, his eyes hoarfrost blue. "I can't _stand_ pop. If you're going to put something on, put on a classical station."

They pulled into a gas station, which looked as if it hadn't been remodeled since the 1960s. It was a small white-painted concrete cube with two cherry red pumps, and one service garage, where a young dirty guy was digging around the engine of a blue sedan. Grayson got out of the car to stretch his legs; he had been sitting for two hours, which had been particularly uncomfortable because he had long legs, and was bigger than both of the twins. His father was talking to an older man at the register inside, who was gesticulating in the way local people did when they tried to explain directions to people who were not from the area. His father was dressed in a black suit and gray fedora, and was scratching his head while the old man scribbled something on a paper.

Alexia got out of the car. She wore a black pea-coat, and a white cashmere scarf. She pushed her hands inside her pockets, squinting against the dry winter sunlight. "He has no idea what the old man is saying, does he?" she asked conversationally.

Alfred got out and came around the Mercedes, standing on Grayson's right and leaning against the driver-side door. Alfred was a little taller than him, but thinner. He wore the male mirror of his sister's clothes: a black Burberry coat, and a white cashmere scarf, which Alfred had not bothered to knot. Grayson noticed the twins seemed to do that a lot—that they would dress like each other—and was pretty sure it wasn't even on purpose.

"Nope, not a damn clue," said Grayson, shaking his head. He grumbled and tried to loosen his tie. He hated wearing monkey suits, but the Spencer party was a formal shindig, so he'd had no choice.

"You look good," remarked Alexia, when she saw him fiddling with the tie-knot. She swatted his hand away and fixed the tie for him, giving the knot enough slack so it did not feel as if it was choking him. "You even combed your hair for once," she added, grinning.

"You can dress a pig in a suit, but it's still a pig," said Alfred, looking at Grayson and smirking. Alfred did not really hate him, but did not really like him either. They had a complicated love-hate relationship.

"Oh. You're funny, Alfred," said Grayson. "Should do stand-up."

Alfred just smiled. "I'm going to go see what's going on with Scott." He turned to Alexia. "Also, that small problem we spoke about?" said Alfred cryptically. "The thing I found in father's office. I believe I've located a good spot." Then Alfred went inside the station, standing patiently beside his father while the old man behind the register rang up a customer.

"What's he talking about, Alexia?" asked Grayson, looking at her.

"Something about father. You'll find out eventually, Grayson," she said, and left it at that.

Grayson had learned a long time ago that prodding Alexia about stuff she did not feel like talking about was about as effective as fishing without a pole. It could be done, but it was needlessly tricky. He shrugged and made his way to the Coke machine by the mini-mart door, feeding a quarter into the slot.

"You shouldn't drink that stuff. It's horrible for your teeth," said Alexia, beside him.

"Sorry, mom," he said, grinning.

"I could tell you about the chemistry," said Alexia.

"We're not in school right now." By school, Grayson had meant Alexia. Since Rockfort was so remote, she taught him, had developed an entire curriculum that would make even the most studious honor-roll kid cry. She would squeeze in two-hour classes before she would go to work, and after she finished work, and would print up lesson packets for him every Monday, which he had to turn in every Friday by midnight. He still owed her an analytical essay on _The Great Gatsby,_ which he'd barely started and had to turn in next week, and had a few pages on factoring polynomials due by the end of the week, which he hadn't started at all because Grayson hated math. There was a school in Pueblo de San Lucia that was run by the nuns at the church; but Alexia had adamantly refused to let him go because she felt religion didn't belong in school, and that the nuns weren't good enough teachers anyway. Sometimes Grayson wished Alexia would let him go; it would probably be easier than her class.

"You've gotten unusually quiet," said Alexia, eyeing him.

"Just thinking," he said, and popped the tab on his can, sipping. The contents were barely cold, and almost tasted flat.

"About?"

"How much I really don't want to go back to school."

"Too bad, Grayson," said Alexia. "I'll give you an extension on your current assignments, since we're going to be here. But since we're going to be here, I'm going to have time for cram lessons."

Grayson groaned. "Why does Alfred get to have a private tutor? It's not fair."

"My brother is smarter than you, and doesn't need the extra help I can provide," said Alexia, matter-of-factly. She scooted closer to him, grinning. "And I just like to torture you. It's become something of a sport."

He finished his Coke and threw the can into a nearby trash-can. Then got Alexia around the head, laughing.

His father came out with Alfred. They both stopped, looking at them. "Unhand my sister, you oaf!" said Alfred, and Grayson let go of Alexia, who spent the next ten minutes assuring Alfred that she was fine, and that they'd just been messing around.

Grayson playfully yanked Alexia's hair. She tried to smack him, but missed. "I hate it when you do that," she said.

"Exactly why he does it," said his father, getting in the car. "Get in, kids. I think I figured out where this damn mansion's at."

"Wish I could tell you how to get there," said Alexia, climbing into the backseat. She sat in the middle now, between Alfred and him. "I don't remember. We took a train back to Raccoon, the Ecliptic Express."

"Couldn't we have just taken the bloody train there?" asked Alfred, looking at her.

She shook her head. "No. It's for Umbrella personnel only," said Alexia. "I could have taken it. But none of you would have been able to get aboard."

"Trains are boring anyway. I like road-trips," said Grayson, buckling himself in. "America's got some crazy back-roads."

They drove for two more hours, then spent an hour navigating several back-roads with long Native American names Grayson could not pronounce, through small towns with names like White Lake and Wolf Creek. They had stopped at a tiny convenience store in Wolf Creek because his father had not been able to find a specific road. The clerk there managed to direct him without much trouble, and before they knew it, they were driving down an old road through the woods. By dusk, the mansion crested into view, and a boy, who had probably been hired locally, took their car away, and around to the back of the mansion.

The mansion was an enormous monstrosity covered in ivy, with lots of spirals and arches, and a high steepled roof, and looked as if it had been built with the very specific instructions to make it look as closely as possible to the hotel from The Shining. Grayson wiggled his finger at Alexia and said, in a low, croaky voice, "It's just like pictures in a book, Danny. It isn't real."

Alexia giggled, then croaked, "Redrum. Redruuuum."

"Would you two weirdos knock it off?" said his father, behind them. He pushed them along, Alfred walking beside him. "Gees Louise, you kids need to cool it on the movies. Besides, Kubrick's a wacko. Should check out some George Stevens films. Recommend _A Place in the Sun_. Maybe take in some Sidney Lumet, Hitchcock—actually, Grayson, you like Hitchcock, so never mind—or Orson Welles. _Citizen Kane's_ a great flick, one of my personal favorites."

"Kubrick's brilliant, Scott. I don't know what you're talking about," said Alexia.

"Sure. If you're crazy," said his father.

"Ridley Scott's pretty cool," said Grayson. "Ever see Alien, dad? Blade Runner?"

"Yes and yes," said his father. "Didn't care much for Alien, but I liked Blade Runner. It wasn't bad."

Alexia looked offended. Grayson knew she loved Alien, and that Blade Runner was her second favorite film.

Alfred rolled his eyes and said, "You're all a bunch of cinephiles. I don't bloody get it."

The foyer was enormous, and made Grayson think of an old hotel lobby. A large chandelier cast an orange glow around the place, making the marble and decorative pieces sparkle. There was a large staircase that wound up into the balustrade, where people in expensive suits and dresses had congregated, speaking in muted conversations, sipping from champagne flutes and eating croquettes, stuffed clams, lobster tails... There was a string quartet playing in the corner of the foyer, and Alexia informed him that they were playing Paganini. Grayson did not care about Paganini, and told her that.

One of Spencer's servants took their coats. He was a tall man with a well-groomed beard and hair. He wore an old-fashioned tailcoat, referred to them as sirs and ladies, and seemed to be doing everything in his power to avoid conversation. Then he went away with their coats.

"See, Harman? That's how a proper servant acts," said Alfred, gesturing in the direction that the old man had gone. Alfred wore a gray herringbone suit, and a black silk tie.

"Alfred," said Grayson's father, giving him a warning look: _stop_.

"Sorry, Scott," said Alfred, automatically.

"Let's go find something to eat, Alfred. I'm starving," said his father.

Alfred nodded, said okay, and they left.

A man approached them. Grayson did not recognize him because he had never met any of Alexia's colleagues. He was tall and fairly fit for his age, which could not have been much older than sixty. He wore a black suit, and had wavy salt-and-pepper hair, and a short manicured beard. His eyes were pale gray, and his face was thin and narrow, with high cheek-bones.

"Alexia Ashford?" said the man, smiling. He had a mild Transatlantic accent, like a bored 1930s newscaster. There was something cold about his smile too; it made Grayson think of serial killers.

"Yes?" she said.

The man stared at Grayson for a few moments; there was something in his eyes, as if the man recognized him from somewhere, but couldn't be sure. He turned to Alexia and said, "Apologies. Martin Bingham. I'll be your medical director in the Antarctica facility." Martin smiled mechanically and extended his hand. "Thought it would be good to meet my future boss."

Alexia shook his hand and nodded, putting on professional airs. "Nice to meet you, Dr. Bingham. Have you been with the Umbrella Corporation very long?"

Bingham stroked his beard meditatively. Then, "I have. I knew your grandfather, a long time ago. A shame he died. He was only in his fifties." He shook his head, and there was something almost sad in his expression. Then the look was gone, and Bingham stared at Grayson again. "Who's this?" he asked.

"Ah. Where are my manners," said Alexia, with work-place cordiality. "This is my personal butler Grayson Harman."

"A butler?" said Bingham, raising a thick black eyebrow. "You look a little young."

"Butler-in-training. Sort of. Sir," said Grayson clumsily. "My dad Scott Harman's the current butler."

"And you'll be taking Scott's place, down the road," said Bingham, nodding. The way he'd said Scott had been strangely intimate, in the way a father might speak about a son. A smell of Taylor of Old Bond Street wafted from Bingham; Grayson recognized the scent, because it was his father's favorite cologne. "Well, I should like to talk to you later, Alexia. I need to speak with James Marcus, however. He's here somewhere."

"Of course, Dr. Bingham. It was a pleasure meeting you," said Alexia.

Bingham bobbed his head. "Best of luck on your rounds, Alexia. This place is a pit of vipers." He started to walk away, toward the crowd. "Watch out for William Birkin."


	3. Part One - Intrigues

Grayson decided he was hungry, and after wandering a bit, found the dining area. It was a huge chandelier-lit room. A row of diamond-paned windows looked out into the Arklay forest, where snowflakes had started to fall in gray clumps. There was a long table of lacquered Indian rosewood, and it was piled high with food in silver cookware, gilded antique candelabras, and floral arrangements of roses and white lilies in fragile-looking porcelain vases. A large marble fireplace stood on the far side of the room, where one of Spencer's servants tossed another log onto the fire and stoked it with the poker. There were a lot of well-dressed people in here too, and most of them could not have been younger than fifty.

He squeezed himself between an old Swede and his wife, and helped himself to some stuffed clams and lobster tail. Grayson even managed to finagle a wine from one of the caterers, which he sipped, decided he did not actually like wine, and casually set down on the table. He saw Alexia by the fireplace, and she was chatting with some tall guy who, as Grayson came closer, realized was Russian, and that his name was Sergei.

Sergei was tall, with a hard square face. His hair was short and graying, and he had a thick beard. When Grayson approached, he said good-bye to Alexia in uneasy English, and excused himself. When Alexia saw him, she said, "Grayson? I was wondering where you ran off to."

"How's mingling?" he asked.

Alexia shrugged. "Precisely what I expected. Dull." She sipped her wine, watching two nearby scientists argue about technique. "Most of them don't think very much of me because of my age."

"What happens when you're thirteen in a room full of blue-hairs," said Grayson, gesturing around the room. He frowned, glancing out the window. It seemed to be snowing a little harder now. "I hope we don't get stuck here."

"Neither do I," said Alexia, finishing her wine and placing the empty glass on a caterer's tray as they passed.

"The house is kind of cool though," said Grayson, eyeing a decorative suit of armor, which clutched an enormous pike. "I sort of want to explore it." He looked at her and grinned. "You in?"

Alexia opened her mouth to say something—she probably wanted to say no—but quickly closed it. A young guy, who looked around twenty, came right up to them, dressed in a nice gray suit. He was tall and gangling, and had an angry red smattering of cystic acne on his chin. His clothes smelled strongly of metallic cologne.

"You must be Alexia Ashford," said the guy. His sandy blonde hair was neatly combed over, and he had the sort of face which always seemed to be scowling. "Hi. I'm William Birkin." Birkin did not smile, or do any of the typical niceties that often accompanied polite conversation. He stared at Alexia instead, awkward.

"Oh, I've heard about you, Dr. Birkin," said Alexia, and she was grinning in an evil way. She did not seem fazed by Birkin's awkwardness, which, to Grayson, seemed to exist on some strange autistic level. "I heard you were considered for the Antarctica promotion. A shame you didn't get it."

The muscle in Birkin's jaw twitched. He said, "No, I didn't. But rumor has it you and Spencer cut a deal." Birkin started to wring his hands, smiling, showing the barest hint of white teeth. Grayson had read somewhere that dogs smiled like that when they were warning someone to back off. "How's it feel to know you had to bribe Spencer for the promotion, instead of earning it?"

Alexia frowned. Grayson could tell she was angry, but to anyone else, she probably looked bored. "Considering there was no bribery involved, Dr. Birkin, I feel rather good." She smiled then, tapping her skull. "I earned the position with this. My brain. Perhaps you could ask Spencer for one. He might have a spare lying around the lab."

Birkin's tone went hostile, any pretense of civility he had tried to maintain gone away. "The only notable thing about your family," he said, through his teeth, "is that Eddie was the first white guy to die from the progenitor strain. Other than that? Bunch of nobodies, the whole Ashford clan."

Grayson really wanted to punch Birkin in the mouth; but did not, because he did not want to shit on Alexia's first impression to her colleagues. Alexia walked away from Birkin, seething, her hands balled in tight fists. And when Grayson was sure she'd gone, he shoved Birkin as hard as he could, and Birkin tripped over something, landing ass-over-head on the floor. "Come on to Alexia again, you creep, and I'll call the cops!" he said, loud enough for the other party-goers to hear. Then Grayson fled the room, abandoning Birkin to the mercy of his co-workers.

Alfred must have heard the commotion because he stood just outside the dining room, grinning. He also knew Grayson well enough to know the accusation had been bullshit. He showed Grayson his hand, and Grayson slapped it. "Sometimes you're all right, Harman," said Alfred, and laughed, in a rare display of amiability.

"I like you too, Alfred." Grayson paused, looking around, not seeing Alexia anywhere. "You see where Alexia went?"

Alfred nodded, then pointed in the other direction. "Saw her head toward the staircase. I offered to come with her, but she told me to bugger off." He shrugged, frowning. "I hate seeing Alexia in such a sour mood."

"So do I," he agreed, watching a man in sunglasses chatting with an old man in a tweed jacket, and Martin Bingham.

Alfred leaned back on the wall, hands in his pockets. "What happened in there anyway? I didn't catch all of it."

"William Birkin insulted your family, pretty much," he said. "Hey, Alfred. Who's the guy in sunglasses?"

Alfred looked. "I think his name is Albert Wesker," he said. Then, "And what do you mean he insulted my family?"

"It was stupid, Alfred. Don't worry about it," said Grayson, shaking his head. Martin Bingham seemed to be arguing with the old man in the tweed jacket, in the awkward way people did when they were not trying to cause a scene. Albert Wesker seemed to be mediating the argument, or trying to. "Who's the old guy?"

"That's James Marcus," said Alfred. "He was the director of the Umbrella Executive Training Center, but it was shut down about five years ago, in '78. Something about budget cuts, or so I'd heard from father." There had been a strange, almost angry look on Alfred's face when he'd mentioned Alexander, his father.

"You okay, Alfred?"

"I'm fine, Harman."

Grayson did not believe Alfred, but decided not to press the issue. "Why's Bingham—uh, he's that guy in the black suit—arguing with Marcus? Seems pretty agitated." He watched Bingham storm away from Marcus, and disappear into a throng of researchers. Wesker was talking to Marcus now, probably trying to calm him down.

"No idea," said Alfred, and shrugged. "There's rumors in my family that grandfather fancied men, and only married my grandmother because that was just the sort of thing you did back then. Rumor has it he was involved with Marcus, though I don't know if it's true or not. Nobody does. The truth died with grandfather."

"Think Bingham might be a spurned boyfriend?" asked Grayson.

Alfred shrugged.


	4. Interlude 1: Good Talk

Alexia had needed air. She had gotten her coat from one of the servants, and had gone outside, onto a balcony that overlooked the Arklay Forest. Martin Bingham was sitting at a little garden table covered in snow, smoking a cigarette. He did not seem to notice her, or perhaps had pretended that he didn't. He was staring at the woods, his pale features composed in a look of vacant contemplation.

"Dr. Bingham?" said Alexia, blowing into her hands and rubbing them together, then pushing them inside the pockets of her pea-coat. She hated the cold. It was one of the reasons she rarely ever visited her family in England. The climate was too dreary, and only tolerable on its best days. "Bored of the party already?"

Bingham shook off a thought, then looked at her. "Ah, Alexia," he said, breath steaming in the air, scratching at his hairline with his finger. He finished his cigarette and put it out in the snow. Snowflakes dusted the shoulders of his wool greatcoat, and his eyelashes, hair, and beard. He had probably been sitting out there for a while, she decided. "Yes. Suppose I am. But obligations, you know? Lord Spencer's here. I wouldn't want to be rude and cut out early."

"Lord Spencer's here? James Marcus, too. I saw him on my way out," she said, gesturing at the door behind her. "Which is unusual. They're proper hermits, the both of them."

When she had mentioned Marcus, Bingham looked mildly upset. "Both are very private," he agreed, shifting in his chair. He pushed the other chair toward her with his foot, and it was covered in snow. "Care to sit?" he asked. "It's not precisely cozy out here, but it is quiet."

Alexia brushed the snow from the wrought-iron chair, and sat down. It was quiet out here; the air had that brittle-glass silence endemic to winter, as if the slightest noise would shatter it completely. She watched a few researchers walking away from the mansion below, in the orange gas-light of Victorian garden lights.

"They're saying the snow will continue through the night," said Bingham, watching her with rain-gray eyes. "They're probably trying to beat the weather." He shrugged. "Sort of stupid, if you ask me. The roads are going to be bad."

"I don't have the luxury of leaving," said Alexia, and sighed. "Not yet, anyway. Lord Spencer will likely want to speak with me."

"The pains of being the boss," said Bingham, grinning emptily. "Which reminds me," he continued, lighting up another cigarette. He stopped suddenly, as if he had just remembered something important. "You don't mind if I smoke, do you?"

Alexia shook her head and said, "Just don't blow it in my face."

Bingham nodded. "Fair enough," he said, blowing smoke away from them. He was quiet for a few moments, watching more of the researchers trickling away from the mansion. It was probably getting late, Alexia decided, though she'd not looked at a clock since before she had arrived at the mansion. "You know," said Bingham, "it's going to be interesting, Alexia."

"What is?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. Her lips were cold, and so were her cheeks; but this was a good opportunity to learn more about Bingham.

"Working for you," he said, looking at her. Bingham crossed his leg over the other, sitting in the way that very old men did when they read their newspapers in airports, parks, and other public places. "I've never worked for a little girl before. You're what? Eleven? Twelve?"

"Thirteen," said Alexia, not really wanting to beat this particular dead horse. She had heard enough about her age to last several lifetimes—from her colleagues, from the students she had gone to university with, from most adults who occupied the spaces in her life.

"I don't mean to be disrespectful," said Bingham, around his cigarette, turning his palms toward her. "It's impressive what you've achieved. Something most adults take entire lifetimes to do. Suppose I'm a little envious." He smiled. "I wasn't a very good student, admittedly. I was smart, but I was also very lazy when it came to my studies. I was more interested in parties, and other things." Bingham did not elaborate on what he'd meant by other things, but Alexia had guesses. "I went to college with your grandfather. Did you know that?"

Alexia did not know that; she did not know anything about her grandfather. He had died three years before Alfred and her had been born in Alexander's laboratory. That knowledge always made her deeply uncomfortable: she was a clone, the shadow of a dead woman, and her mother had been nothing more than a borrowed body. "No," she said finally. "I didn't."

"Oh yes," said Bingham, and nodded. "Your grandfather, myself, and James Marcus attended the same university. Funny story. Your grandfather tutored me and helped me pass." He sighed, looked almost wistful about something. Then Bingham said, "Edward never had to try. He was too intelligent for his own good. He could go an entire semester without studying a thing, Alexia, and would pass his tests with flying colors." Bingham shook his head and chuckled. "I never understood how he did it, between the jazz clubs and the crazy house-parties."

That piqued Alexia's interest. She had never imagined her grandfather as someone who had been wild.

Bingham seemed to pick up on the fact that she wanted to hear more. He grinned a little wider and said, "Oh yes. They actually called him Fast Eddy on campus. I shit you not. Edward used to go to the dance-halls and the night-clubs, and he'd listen to jazz until the mornings. Massive hangovers had become something of a routine for him. He had even briefly experimented with drugs. He would go to the croakers—that's what we called the easy doctors, you see—and get scripts for morphine. Then met a woman and mellowed out, and you know the rest. Alexander was born, and Edward became too involved in his work."

"Well," she said, shocked, letting that knowledge slowly sink in. "That wasn't quite the story I expected, Dr. Bingham."

"I have more, but you're too young for those stories," he said, finishing his second cigarette.

"I'm getting sick of hearing about my age," said Alexia.

"Get used to it, Alexia," said Bingham, regarding her with the clinical detachment of a psychologist. "You're thirteen-years-old, and most of your co-workers—or your subordinates, like I'll soon be—are far older than you are." He smiled mechanically and laced his fingers together. "I could insult your intelligence by telling you to hush like a good child, or talking down to you. But I know better. You're not someone to fuck with. I can see that already, plain as day. You're a hard little nut."

"I'll also be the one deciding your raises and bonuses," she pointed out.

"Fair point," said Bingham, bobbing his head agreeingly. "If it's one thing one must never fuck with, it's one's finances." He stood, taller than Alexia had remembered, and seemed to stoop. "If you'll excuse me."

"Bingham?" Alexia wasn't sure why she wanted to know; but the question had been bothering her, like an annoying itch.

"Yes, boss?" he said, grinning.

"Did you ever have any children?"

Bingham's expression went blank. It was the sort of professional indifference which had been cultivated from years of operating within the volatile hierarchies of the Umbrella Corporation, where everyone was a potential enemy, or a potential. "I did," he said. "A son. I left him and his mother when he was still a baby."

"Thank you, Bingham," said Alexia, still unsure why she had asked.

He inclined his head, a polite good-bye gesture. Then left, and Alexia saw Albert Wesker step outside, dressed in an expensive black winter-coat. Albert watched Bingham go away, then said to her, "Didn't expect to find you out here, Alexia."

"William Birkin pissed me off," she said, and paused. Grayson had been rubbing off on her. "Made me angry," she corrected.

"Birkin's just sore you ousted him," said Wesker, and leaned against the snow-dusted French railing. Clumps of gray snow wheeled down around them, the winter-silence intermittently broken by the far-off slam of a car-door, or the grumbling of tires, or muted conversations growing steadily more distant. "I did warn you that things could get quite ugly in this company."

"You did," she agreed. Alexia remembered the conversation, back in Arklay, when she had toured the facility. Wesker had sort of taken her under-wing, and Alexia still could not decide if that was something she should be grateful for, or something she should be extremely wary of. "Why are you wearing those stupid sunglasses? It's nighttime," she said, shifting the subject.

Wesker frowned. "Don't like them?" He took the sunglasses off. His eyes were so pale that they were almost white. "I like sunglasses," he added, as if that explained his peculiar habit well enough.

"I just think it's silly when there's no sun," said Alexia.

He chuckled. Then Wesker said, "My turn to ask a question. Why are you out there? Your little friend riled the guests. Claimed Birkin came on to you, and now everyone is half-convinced he's a pedophile." He jerked his thumb at the door. "Thought you would be in there, trying to smooth things over."

Alexia buried her face in her hands. "That's how Grayson entertains himself," she said, plaintively. She had never understood why Grayson had this proclivity for trouble-making, and why he derived so much joy from it. She had a theory that Grayson used some weird form of photosynthesis to convert people's irritation into food-energy that sustained him. Alexia looked at Wesker and frowned. "He's like a bloody dog that continually shits on the carpet, even after you've yelled at him, sprayed him with water, swatted him with a rolled newspaper..."

"You sound like you care about him a great deal, Alexia," said Wesker, observantly.

Alexia blushed. Had it really been that plain? She tried to play it off, even if Wesker was right; she liked Grayson, and had for a long time. But Alexia had no idea how to tell Grayson that, nor had she ever been brave enough to try. "Don't be stupid, Albert," she said, surprised by how convincing her indignation sounded.

"If you say so, Alexia," said Wesker, and shrugged his broad shoulders. He glanced at the door. "What were you talking to Bingham about?"

"Nothing. He told me some stories about my grandfather," said Alexia.

Wesker nodded. "I've heard good things about Edward from the senior researchers. They viewed him as something of a savior." Wesker paused, as if considering something. "Just be careful around Bingham. I have this funny feeling about him."

"You told me to have funny feelings about everyone in this company," said Alexia. "Bingham didn't seem so bad, however."

"The really bad ones never do," said Wesker, and started toward the door. "We should join the party. It's starting to snow harder, and I'm cold. We might be spending the night here."

Alexia got up from the garden table and followed him, the snow crunching under her shoes. "Worse places to spend the night than a mansion."

"Spencer is a generous host, for the most part," said Wesker. "Several of my colleagues in the Arklay Laboratory maintain rooms in the mansion. It's a large place, and Spencer is rarely here. His primary home is in Europe. I just hope you're not afraid of old house noises, Alexia."


	5. Part One - The Arklays

Grayson saw Alexia coming, her pea-coat dusted with snow. He put an arm around her and guided her to the sidelines of the party. The researchers were chatting, the William Birkin incident practically forgotten after Spencer had resolved the issue and scolded Grayson. He told Alexia about it.

"You are an _embarrassment_ to the Ashfords," said Alexia, staring at him. Her cheeks and ears were pink from the cold. "Is it so much to ask that you behave at least once in your life, Grayson? Act like a civilized person?"

"Sorry. I gotta bad streak," said Grayson dismissively, shrugging. "And Birkin's a jerk."

Spencer hobbled toward them. He walked slightly bent to the side, apparently an old hunting injury, or so his dad had told him. His blue-veined arthritic hand was wrapped around the silver horse-head ornament of a cane, a large ring on his finger, the ruby glittering like a fat bead of blood. A tall, lanky man with coiffed white-black hair, he was practically a dead-ringer for Vincent Price.

"Your servant's got quite a mouth on him, Alexia," said Spencer, in a voice that made Grayson think of parched earth. His watery hazel eyes were nested in deep pockets of wrinkled sick-pale flesh. His suit was the precise shade of an unlit room, tailored in the sort of style that had been popular in the 1940s.

"Lord Spencer? I'm so sorry that he's caused such an uproar," said Alexia.

Spencer put his hand up: _stop_. Then stooped and kissed both of her cheeks, in the way a grandfather might when they saw their favorite grandchild. "Think nothing of it, Alexia. The situation has been contained," said Spencer. "But see to it that your servant doesn't stir further trouble."

"Of course, Lord Spencer," said Alexia.

Grayson nodded. He would behave, and said so.

Spencer smiled with dull old man teeth and patted him on the head. "Good lad." He brushed the snow from Alexia's pea-coat with long knotted fingers. "Enjoying the scenery outside, dear girl?" he asked, conversationally. "It's like a Currier and Ives picture, isn't it."

"Indeed, Lord Spencer. It's beautiful out there," said Alexia.

Spencer bobbed his head affirmatively, then said, "I should get back to the party. That old codger Marcus wants to speak with me about something. Undoubtedly to whine." He laughed wetly, and shook his head. "The weather will be quite bad tonight, Alexia. You're welcome to stay here. I've so many rooms in this old place." Spencer hobbled away.

"If you so much as _breathe_ in an antagonizing way, Grayson, I will _end_ you," said Alexia, turning and poking him hard in the chest. "Do you hear me?"

"Yes, mom," he said, saluting.

Grayson wanted a break from the party, and snuck away while Alexia talked with some woman from the Paris Lab about a Project Nemesis. He found himself on the veranda, out back of the mansion. There was a small family cemetery here, and the yard was empty and snow-quiet. Reaching into his back pocket, he took out the Dunhill he'd nicked from his dad's jacket, lighting it with a tear-away match.

Alfred must have seen him go. He appeared beside Grayson and took the cigarette from him, taking a drag, then passing it back. "You're lucky my sister didn't see you make your grand getaway, Harman."

"Alexia's not really hard to sneak away from, long as you distract her," said Grayson, grinning. He sucked on the cigarette, watching the winter-dead branches of a tree shaking in the light breeze, making wind-chime noises. "Not going to tell her?"

Alfred smirked. "I should, but no. You saw me smoke. If Scott found out, he'd kill us both."

Grayson came up with the other Dunhill he'd nicked and passed it to Alfred, lighting it with another tear-away match. "You come here just to pick up some contraband?" he joked. "I feel like a dealer."

"No. I have a headache from all the gibbering in there," said Alfred, rubbing his temple, blowing a wisp of smoke.

"It's so boring. I saw a few people leave. Don't blame them," said Grayson, and shook his head, finishing his cigarette and flicking the butt into the snow. "We might get stuck here. I rather be at the hotel. It has pay TV."

"We probably will be staying," said Alfred matter-of-factly, finishing his cigarette and tossing it aside. "Scott was saying he didn't want to be out on the roads, the way that they are now. A shame we paid for the hotel already."

"You're rich," said Grayson. "Who cares? What's a couple hundred bucks or whatever to your family's deep pockets."

"Point being we're paying for a service we're not using," said Alfred.

"Whatever. I don't like this house, man," said Grayson. "It gives me the creeps."

"Our house on Rockfort is old too, Harman, and you sleep just fine."

"But that's because it's not as big as this place, and you and Alexia are right down the hall."

"Never knew you were such a wuss, Harman," said Alfred, grinning. Alfred had one of those charismatic gentleman smiles which made people instantly like him. He could smile his way out of most situations, and Grayson envied that.

"I should punch you," said Grayson, conversationally.

"But you won't," said Alfred, patting him on the arm. He turned back to the door. "I'm going back inside. If Alexia finds you, don't blame me for snitching. My sister goes bloodhound whenever you're missing." Then he was gone.

Alfred was right. Grayson could not hide for long from Alexia; she would panic and think he'd gone to start a fire or something, then tear the mansion apart until she found him. He decided to have another cigarette before she did; he always kept three on him: one for the morning, one for the afternoon, and one for the evening.

Sooner than he'd hoped, Alexia found him, and Grayson felt like she'd found him with his pants around his ankles. She snatched the cigarette from his mouth and held it up to his eyes. "What is this?" she demanded. "A cigarette, Grayson? Do you know what sort of horrible things these little sticks do to your lungs? Turns them bloody necrotic."

"Please don't mention this to dad," he said, frowning.

Alexia snapped the cigarette in half, then ground the two pieces under her shoe, leaving a black mark in the snow. "Tell you what," she said, hands on her hips. "I won't tell him this time. But if I _ever_ catch you with another cigarette, I will."

"Okay, okay. Fine," he said, defensively. "You win."

"Damn right I win," said Alexia, glaring at him. Her expression eased, and she sighed. "I'm just looking out for you, Grayson. You're my best friend. I don't want you killing yourself with carcinogenic quasi-tobacco. You know it's mostly chemicals in that stuff? Dangerous chemicals. I've even heard rumors about fiberglass in the filters. Plastics. Pesticides. The companies cut all sorts of corners to cheapen the product."

"Okay, duly noted. No cigarettes," said Grayson, and turned around, leaning on the snow-dusted stone railing. He paused, catching sight of something glowing—a flashlight—beyond the cemetery: two men, who looked like Spencer's servants. They were hunched over, dragging something, and whatever it was, it seemed heavy. "You see that?" he asked.

Alexia looked. "Probably garbage," she said, and shook her head.

Grayson did not think so. "I wanna check it out," he said, grinning to himself. He moved away, despite Alexia's protests, and followed the men through the cemetery, ducking behind headstones and mausoleums. Eventually, the men led him to the woods; but once he'd reached the woods, Grayson had lost sight of them.

Alexia trailed him, uneasy. "We shouldn't be out here," she said. "It's late. There's no light. There might be wolves around here, Grayson. Bears. I don't want to be torn apart by a bloody wolf or a bear."

"Relax. Don't piss yourself," said Grayson, winding an arm around her. "I'll protect you from the wolves and the bears."

"What the hell are you going to do? Punch them in the noses? Wrestle them?"

"Come on, Alexia. What if they killed someone?" he said, sounding more excited than he'd intended to. He had seen murder mysteries on television, and had always wondered what it would be like to be in one.

They wandered farther into the woods. Grayson kept his eyes open for the men, but could not really see much. The woods were dark, lit by sourceless gray winter-light, the area like a monochrome photograph. He found a car in the woods. It was half-buried in the snow, the rusting carcass of a 1963 Impala.

"Who's car was this?" he asked, pushing some of the snow away to look inside. The upholstery was moldering and covered in yellowing newspapers, probably from bums who had used it as a temporary shelter.

"I don't know," said Alexia, behind him. Then, "Grayson, be careful. An animal might be nesting in that. I don't need you contracting rabies."

"Relax," he said. The driver-side window was gone, and he climbed inside, despite Alexia telling him not to. It smelled of rot and piss. Most of the newspapers in here were from the last ten years. He opened the glove compartment, wondering if the owner of the vehicle had left anything valuable.

"Grayson, get _out_ of there," said Alexia, keeping her voice low, as if she was afraid he would disturb some dangerous sleeping animal.

He found some old bank statements dated 1962, and the name on it was George Trevor. "The vehicle was owned by some guy named George Trevor. Looks like there's nothing cool in here." He was a little disappointed, but had not honestly expected to find anything; if there had ever been anything valuable in the car, the bums had carried it away.

"George Trevor?" said Alexia, like she recognized the name.

Grayson climbed out and nodded, brushing a spider-web from his hair, and the spider that had spun it. "You know the guy?" he asked. He wasn't really sure how Alexia could know anyone from 1962; she was only thirteen, and her circle of friends and acquaintances was non-existent.

"Not personally, no," said Alexia. "He designed the mansion in the Antarctic base. Then, as my father tells it, George Trevor built the Spencer mansion on the recommendation of my grandfather. He disappeared in the 1960s."

"Well. Looks like he forgot his car," said Grayson, not really wanting to know what had actually happened to George Trevor.

There was a noise, not too far from them; it sounded like someone shoveling. Grayson looked at Alexia, then followed the noise, seeing a flashlight shining between the trees like a will-o'-the-wisp. He saw the two guys from before, and they were burying something in a small clearing; it was a large bag, and Grayson heard an inhuman moaning coming from it, muffled by the plastic.

"Thought you killed it," he heard the one man say. He was the one digging the hole, while the thing in the bag wiggled and made noises.

The other man took out a gun with a silencer and shot the thing in the bag. It stopped moving.

"Should've done that at the start," said the digging man. He finished shoveling, then pushed the bag into the hole. "Light it up. Don't need it coming back as one of those crimson heads."

Grayson wanted to ask Alexia what a crimson head was, but was too scared. He had not thought that the men had actually killed someone.

"Can't believe the idiot comes to the party after being infected," said the man who had shot the gun, and he picked up a plastic container of kerosene and started to splash the contents inside the hole. He lit a match, and both men stepped back. The man tossed the match into the hole, and it went up in flames, the smell of cooked meat filling the air.

"Probably didn't know," said the man who had dug the hole, picking up the shovel. "Symptoms are similar to a cold. Probably just thought he was under-the-weather."

"Which lab was he from?"

"Martin Bingham's, I think," said the shovel-man. "We need to make sure nobody else has been infected."

The gunman stopped, shining his light in Grayson's direction. Grayson ducked, and so did Alexia. He mouthed it would be okay, and Alexia nodded. "There's someone in the fucking bushes," said the gunman, and started toward them.

Grayson grabbed Alexia and ran, heard bullets pinging off the trees behind him. His heart jack-hammered inside his rib-cage, and Grayson was scared and sick, and wished he had not gotten them into this predicament. More gunshots tore through the woods, and a bullet hit the bushes nearby.

"This was a stupid idea," said Alexia, running alongside him, occasionally looking back to see if the men were still following. She did not look precisely scared; she looked angry, maybe a little nauseous.

"I won't let them kill you," said Grayson. They hit a brier-patch, the little thorns tearing at his pant-legs, low-hanging branches scratching his face like the sharp tips of cat claws. Another bullet ripped past, and Alexia tripped and landed in the thorns. Grayson quickly got her out, then carried her piggyback, running harum-scarum through the trees.

Eventually, the gunshots stopped, and when Grayson looked, he did not see the men anymore. He took a moment to catch his breath, cold sweat on his face. "I'm so sorry," he said, panting. "You were right." He looked around, not recognizing where they were. He'd been in such a panic that he hadn't paid attention to where he had been running.

"I should bloody murder you," said Alexia, and sounded like she really did want to murder him. She complained about her ankle hurting, so Grayson put her down to look. When he did, Alexia slapped him hard across the face.

"I deserved that," he conceded, his cheek stinging. He composed his features into a look of bored vacancy. He did not want Alexia to know that they were lost in the Arklays. "Let me see your ankle."

Alexia slapped him again. "We could be dead right now," she said, gritting her teeth. "All because of your idiocy. Why do you always get us into situations, Grayson? What is so _alluring_ about fucking your friends over?"

She had twisted her ankle, though the injury did not seem serious. There were little cuts on her legs too, where the thorns had stuck her. "I'm sorry, Alexia," he repeated, looking her dead in the eyes. "I'm gonna fix it, okay? I'll get us back to the mansion."

She caught him off-guard, hugging him around the neck. "You could have been shot, you idiot," she said.

Grayson hugged her back.


	6. Part One - Strange Occurences

Alexia had tried to tell him where to go, but Grayson felt no closer to the Spencer estate, and was pretty sure they'd gone in the totally wrong direction. Now they sat in the ruins of some building, the bricks moldering under the snow. He wondered what this place had been, and whether or not they were still on Spencer's property.

"What do you think this place was?" he asked.

"Not sure," said Alexia, and she limped the perimeter of the ruins, inspecting the bricks. "I had heard there were iron-works here a century ago, mines. Perhaps it had been one of those things?"

"You sure you don't need me to carry you?" he asked.

She shook her head. "I'll be fine. It's just a sprained ankle, Grayson."

"I think we went the wrong way."

Alexia looked at him. Then, as if admitting some terrible secret, she said, "I know. I think we're lost."

Grayson wanted to tell her yes, they were lost, but decided against it. The snow was still falling, but lighter now, soft white clouds wheeling down around them. If he wasn't so worried about whether or not they'd ever get back to the estate, Grayson would have thought it was pretty. He tried not to think of how cold he was. He thought about the men instead, and the dead bag-thing in the hole. "Those guys said something about an infection," he said. "Crimson head. What the fuck does that all mean, Alexia?"

She sat down beside him, on the crumbling wall of bricks. "You wouldn't believe me, even if I told you."

"I'm still pretty sure aliens exist, and that they've been to this planet before," said Grayson, as if that explained his stance on what he would or wouldn't believe. "I also think Atlantis was real, but had gone by a different name, and that the Bermuda triangle is a parallel dimension. I also believe that the Macbeth curse is actually a thing, and that people really do die because they act in the play."

Alexia shook her head, smiling. "I can't really go into it," she said, looking at him. "It's in my contract. All I can say is that it has something to do with what we're doing in the Umbrella Corporation—unintended side-effects—and that we should be worried."

Grayson did not want to worry, but felt it now, wriggling in his chest. He stood, brushing away the snow that had accumulated on his lap. "Come on," he said, and helped her onto his back. "Let's figure this shit out."

"I think I know what those men were doing," said Alexia, as Grayson made his way through the woods, the snow up past his ankles.

"But you can't say," said Grayson, frowning. He did not mind carrying Alexia; she was light, and her body kept him warm.

"No, I can't. But I can say that those men won't bother us, should we run into them again."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm with the Umbrella Corporation," she said, slipping her arms around his neck. "They didn't know who I was before. They were simply doing their job."

"Job?"

"Clean-up," said Alexia.

"They mentioned Martin Bingham's lab," said Grayson, carefully ducking underneath an overhang of dead branches, his arms securely wrapped around Alexia's legs. He awkwardly made his way down a small slope, managing not to slip.

"I know," said Alexia, like she suspected something, but did not want to tell him what that something was.

After hours of stumbling through the woods and the snow, Grayson somehow found his way back to the Spencer estate. He could see the window-lights beyond the trees, and started to walk faster, until they crossed into the perimeter of the family cemetery. They went inside, and most of the party-goers had cleared out; though a small group remained in the foyer, and they looked uncertain, scared. It was the sort of expression Grayson imagined on the faces of Jews who'd been detained by the gestapo, worried about their futures.

"Where have you _been_?" His father appeared, and looked furious. When he saw Alexia, and the snow on their clothes and in their hair, his father gave Grayson a steely look, which quickly became a worried dad-look. "What happened?" he asked, his tanned features smoothing. "Alfred and I have been looking _everywhere_ for you kids."

"We went outside for a walk and got lost," said Grayson, which had mostly been true. "Alexia sprained her ankle."

Alfred rushed to Alexia. "Sister, are you all right?" he asked, helping her from Grayson's back and looking her over with the sort of overprotective look a worried older brother might give his younger sister. And technically, Alfred was the older of the two; he'd been born several minutes before Alexia.

"I'm fine," said Alexia, swatting his hands away. She looked past Alfred, staring at the frightened researchers. "Alfred, we need to talk. Walk with me to the bathroom. I need a shower."

When Alexia had gone, Grayson looked at his dad and said, "We're staying the night, I guess."

"We are," said his father. He hugged Grayson, his huge arms wrapped around him like a steel girdle. "I was worried something happened to you, kiddo. Don't do that shit again, you hear me?"

"I'm sorry, dad. It was my fault we got lost. I made Alexia go with me."

"All that matters is you're safe, and so is she," said his father, letting him go and messing Grayson's hair with a large rough hand. "Go get a shower, kiddo. Here, I'll show you where to go, and where you'll be sleeping."

Grayson glanced at the researchers again, who were herded from the room by Spencer's men. Again, Grayson thought about war pictures he'd seen of Jews as they were marched into trains bound for Germany's various kill-camps. "What's going on?" he asked. "Those researchers, dad."

"Don't know," said his father, without looking at him.

The bathroom his father had shown him looked as if it had not been changed since the 1920s. It had a claw-footed porcelain tub and a pedestal sink, and checkered tile. Grayson bathed, then brushed his teeth and changed into some cotton pajamas he'd found in the dresser of his room; though they were baggy on him, and had probably belonged to a man. One of Spencer's maids had taken his suit to be cleaned, and had gone as quietly as she'd materialized.

Like the bathroom, the bedroom looked as if it had not been re-decorated for sixty years—the sort of bedroom found in haunted houses and slasher flicks. It was clean, but smelled faintly of age, of being lived-in and abandoned by a dead generation. The walls were brown-beige with dark pinstripes, and the furniture was chestnut and patinaed with scratches. His bed was huge, with a scrolled headboard, and crisp white sheets which smelled of fresh laundry. The moment his head hit the pillow, Grayson fell asleep.

He woke in the middle of the night with an urgent need to piss. Grayson sat up, looked around, having temporarily forgotten he'd been sleeping in a strange mansion, and not the Hilton by the airport. He crawled out of the bed and stumbled around the room, eventually found the door. The hallway was lit by the soft yellow-orange glow of kerosene lamps, deep, creepy shadows on the papered walls. There was definitely a haunted house feeling to the Spencer estate, Grayson decided, as he padded barefoot down the oriental runner that spanned the length of the hall.

As he came around the corner, Grayson stopped. Something at the end of the hallway. Spencer's men again—these guys were different, not the ones who had buried the body—and they were dragging two plastic bags, like the kind he'd seen go into the hole. They muscled the bags through a door, complaining they were heavy, complaining that someone should have known better, the stupid moron, and that something had gotten loose.

Grayson waited until he was sure the men were gone. He saw blood on the floorboards, a thin trail of it, and followed it back to a room. He did not want to open the door. Turning around, Grayson ran the entire way back to Alexia's room and banged on her door with the flat side of his fist, until he heard shuffling inside. The door creaked open, and Alexia stared sleepily at him.

"Grayson, it's two o'clock in the bloody morning," she said, yawning. Alexia rubbed her eyes with the point of her first knuckle. "Don't tell me you can't sleep alone, or something. You're not five."

"Alexia, Spencer's men dragged dead bodies through a door," he said, and it sounded even stranger aloud.

She looked awake now. "Hold on," she said, disappearing for a few seconds, then emerging from the room in a gray silk robe. "Show me."

Grayson led Alexia back to where he'd seen the blood, and it was still there on the floorboards. He showed her the room. She went inside. Blood soaked the bed-sheets, and the room smelled of dead rotting things. "See?" said Grayson. "Someone was fucking _killed_ , Alexia. I bet you it was those researchers. Were they from Bingham's lab?"

"They were," said Alexia, looking at the mess. She did not seem particularly frightened of the blood; it was like Alexia was used to this sort of thing. "I need to talk to Albert," she said.

"Wesker's still here?"

"He is," said Alexia. "He'll want to know about this."

"What about Bingham?"

"He left. Disappeared suddenly from the party. Nobody had even seen him go."


	7. Interlude 2: A Conversation

Alexia hurried to Albert's room. He stayed in the mansion's west wing, where several of the Arklay researchers were housed. Wesker's room was at the far end of the kerosene-lit hall. She knocked. "It's Alexia," she said. "Open up, Albert."

The door opened. Wesker was still dressed in his suit, but wore a white lab coat now, and looked as if he had not gone to sleep. She noticed William Birkin in the room, wearing an impatient, sour look. "Oh, good. I was about to come get you, Alexia," said Wesker, letting her inside. "We need to talk."

Alexia nodded, turning to Grayson. His gray eyes were wide and alert, his black hair disheveled. She had always admired his unpolished looks; it was the sort of appearance, she decided, which seemed endemic to American boys, as if they were all cut from the same rough boyish material. "I want you to go back to the room," instructed Alexia, calmly. "Lock the door, and go back to sleep, Grayson. Try to forget what's happened. We'll sort it out."

Grayson nodded. "Sure," he said, running a hand through his hair, making the ends stick up even more. "Okay. Just sort this shit out, all right?"

"I will. I'll stop by your room soon. All right?" Alexia smiled.

He nodded again, said, "Okay," and went away.

Alexia went inside Wesker's room and closed the door behind her, locking it. Birkin hadn't changed his clothes either, and was sucking down coffee from a thermos. He looked every bit as sleep-deprived as Albert, but slightly more worn, as if Birkin had not properly slept for days, and was only up because he was riding a wavelength of caffeine and sheer willpower.

Birkin rubbed his eyes, his hands shaking from the caffeine. "This is our problem. You're not part of the Arklay Lab, Ashford."

"He just doesn't want to play with the rest of the group," said Wesker. "It's all about credit to William, and being the one to save the day." Wesker had his own thermos. He unscrewed the cap and sipped the steaming contents.

"What the fuck happened, Albert?" asked Alexia, eschewing her professionalism. She was mad, mad that a small infection had broken out, and mad that Bingham had gotten away before she could ask him what had happened.

"You know as well as we do, Ashford," said Birkin. He was sitting at a small writing desk, the chair turned toward them, his face somewhat haunted-looking in the kerosene light of the desk-lamp. "There was a fucking infection, super genius—" he pantomimed an explosion with his hands, for emphasis—"and we were caught with our pants down."

"How do several people waltz into the mansion—which, I needn't remind you, is an _Umbrella installation_ —and wind up causing a small bloody outbreak?" Alexia became furious, though did her best to rein it in. She took a deep breath. Then, "Was it contained?"

Wesker nodded. "It was. Birkin and I have been coordinating the clean-up detail," he said, pacing, occasionally sipping his coffee. "It's the funniest—well, I suppose it isn't that funny actually." He shook his head. "It's _strange_ ," he corrected. "The infected didn't pass the virus around, Alexia. There was no evidence of bites on any of the researchers."

"Which means someone deliberately infected them," said Birkin, before she could say the same thing.

"I'm not stupid, Birkin. In fact, I'm _a lot_ smarter than you," said Alexia, frowning. Birkin looked as if he wanted to argue that inalienable fact, but Wesker told him to shut up and let it go, and Alexia didn't care enough to keep poking Birkin anyway. She rubbed the space between her eyes, feeling the onset of a headache. "Did any of them turn?" she asked, once the pain had dulled a bit.

"One," said Wesker, holding up a finger. "It's still in the mansion somewhere. But this house is enormous. It could be anywhere."

"All of the others have been accounted for?" she asked, glancing between them.

"Spencer's orders. We eliminated the threat," said Birkin.

"Explains why Spencer's people were burying a body in the woods," said Alexia, and shook her head.

"The others were burned in the crematorium," said Wesker. "Whatever mutations Bingham has been experimenting with, it's dangerous. Unstable. The zombies are stronger than the typical T-varieties you see in the labs. It's unsettling."

"How so?" asked Alexia, raising an eyebrow. She sat on the edge of Wesker's bed, watching him, feeling as if she was sitting in a conference.

Birkin spoke. "They move faster," he said, counting off his fingers. "They're stronger, more aggressive than the average zombie—god, I hate that word, but what else are you going to call these bioweapons—and have better sense. They can smell meat, like a rabid, starving fucking dog. My guess is Bingham was dabbling in some shit he shouldn't be—as most of us are wont to do—and had been the one who'd infected his staff. We found tract-marks on the corpses, from intravenous injections. If I wasn't an Umbrella scientist, I'd just assume these things were some weird fucking mutant variant of a heroine junky. Wish they were; it would make this easier."

"How would Bingham inject these people without them knowing something was wrong?" asked Alexia, staring at Birkin.

"And you're a genius?" said Birkin, rolling his eyes. He finished his coffee. "He tricked them, Ashford. They probably thought they were just getting their routine shots, since we have to keep up on our vaccinations, given the often volatile materials we handle: viruses, dangerous flesh-eating bacteria cultures..."

"The symptoms initially manifest as cold symptoms," explained Wesker, though Alexia had already known that. "The researchers likely thought they'd simply gotten sick, as people often do during winter, or that the symptoms were just side-effects of the vaccines."

That made sense to Alexia. Like her colleagues, she had to endure annual vaccinations and monthly check-ups to ensure she hadn't been infected in her line of work. The side-effects had often been terrible. Intense nausea, cold sweats, heart palpitations, weakness and fatigue... She had been bed-ridden at one point, for an entire week, and Grayson and Alfred had kept her company, had given her medication and made sure she was comfortable. "I see what you mean," said Alexia finally, standing up. "Any idea where this infected could be?"

"We have the clean-up detail scouring the mansion," said Birkin, in his usual snippy way. "Albert and I were about to go look for it, but then you showed up."

"William. Enough," said Wesker, unlocking the door and stepping out into the hall. "Alexia's our colleague, whether you like it or not. And she's going to help us."


	8. Part One - The Subject

Grayson did not go back to his room, even though Alexia had made it clear that that was where she'd wanted him to go. He wanted to know if his father and Alfred were all right. Two bodies had been dragged from a bedroom...

"I'm a fucking moron," he said aloud, skidding around a corner and slipping on the rug, then quickly scrabbling on all fours until he was on his feet. He had cut himself on something, and it burned, dripped little blood-beads on the floorboards. "I should be back at the room," he told himself, sweating. "I shouldn't even be out here."

As he rounded another corner—the hallways here seemed to go on and on, an infinite maze of kerosene lamps and Hitchcock props—Grayson suddenly felt the distinct cellular certainty that something was nearby, and it was bad.

At the end of the long horror movie hall, Grayson saw a man's shadow standing perfectly still. He had seen several horror movies, and this particular circumstance was rarely benign. This was the part where the demon would reveal itself, the ghost would suddenly attack, the monster would run toward him on all fours, skittering along the walls like an animatronic spider...

The man did not move right away. He started to shuffle slowly, sniffing the air like a dog that had caught the scent of a hated cat. The man whipped around and ran at him, in a way that made Grayson think of a stop-motion figure on fast-forward. His face was dead, his eyes were dead, his mouth was a lopsided gash ridged with crooked blood-stained teeth. Grayson ran as fast as he could in the opposite direction, skidding again on the carpet, catching himself, barely clearing the corner and banging his shoulder on something, and it had hurt.

He could hear the thing behind him, crashing through vases and tables, thumping along the floor like a feral bull. His heart started beating faster and faster, and felt as if it would pop. Grayson turned, threw a small table into the man-creature; it stumbled, then quickly scrambled to its feet, barely fazed.

He saw an open door and dove inside the room, hitting the floor hard. Grayson clambered to his feet and slammed the door shut, locking it, bracing whatever he could against it—chairs, tables, an ancient television—so the thing could not get through. He had done a shoddy job, because the thing broke through the door anyway, squeezing through the hole it had made and piling through his barricade.

Grayson fell flat on his ass. He looked around the room for some kind of weapon. There was nothing, and it was right on top of him, and he could smell its stink, and the blood on its clothes...

There was a _pop_ , and part of the thing's head dissolved into a cloud of blood, bits of skull splattering his cheek. He had never thought that he'd ever have someone's brain on his face, and it was worse than he had ever imagined. It smelled of bad meat, had the mushy consistency of overcooked onions... Grayson doubled over and vomited.

Albert Wesker appeared in the doorway, holding a gun. Alexia pushed past him and said, with the shaky quality of someone who was about to cry, "I fucking _told_ you to go back to the room, Grayson!" She crouched on her toes and started to frantically wipe the blood from his face. "Why don't you _ever_ listen to me? Why?"

William Birkin moved past Wesker. "The butler's kid?" he said, looking at Wesker, as if Grayson had been the last person Birkin had expected to see.

"So it seems," said Wesker, the gun disappearing behind the lapel of his lab coat. "Birkin, get the clean-up detail here. I want the body brought down to the lab for processing."

"We should just burn it," argued Birkin, his blue eyes cold and hard like steel buttons. "Like the others."

"We might learn something useful," said Wesker. "Go on, Birkin. The clean-up detail."

Birkin muttered something which might have been _goddammit._ Then he went away, his footsteps receding.

Alexia cupped his face and said, "Grayson, look at me." He did. His thoughts came and went like light breezes; the only thing Grayson could process was the coolness of her fingers on his cheek, and the stickiness of the gore on his face. "I _want_ to explain what you saw, but I can't." She looked back at Wesker, who toed the corpse and mumbled something about it being interesting. "Wesker. Do we have someone we can send Grayson to? A psychologist?"

Wesker laughed. "A company psychologist?" he said. "I feel Umbrella felt it was an unnecessary expenditure."

" _Look_ at him. He's gone," said Alexia.

"He just has a little brain on his face, Alexia. Goodness."

Grayson felt as if someone had just thrown his soul back inside him, at fastball speed. He shook his head and slapped Alexia's hands away. "I'm fine. I don't need a fucking head doctor." Standing up, he wiped his face on the bed-sheets.

"You can't take him to anyone. Remember your contract, Alexia," said Wesker, leaning his broad, heavy body against the door-frame. "He'll be fine. Seems like a strong boy." He smiled, and the smile was hollow, as if Wesker had learned how to smile from a manual. "Truthfully, I'm glad we found the specimen this easily. I was worried we'd have to scour the entirety of the mansion grounds."

Grayson stared at the dead man on the floor. The man looked as if he'd been dug up after a recent violent murder. Pieces of his skin were missing, and it was pale and rotting. There was a pervasive stink that came from the corpse, of emptied bowels and spoiled meat which had festered under the hot sun. "Smells fucking awful," he said. "What the fuck drugs was this guy on?"

"A special kind," said Wesker, still smiling like a picture from a manual. He looked at Alexia and folded his arms. "I trust your little butler will stay quiet about what he's seen? You know the company policy, Alexia."

"He won't say anything, Albert. There's no need to follow the policy." Alexia sounded worried, and Grayson did not like the ambiguity in which they spoke about the company policy, or the way Alexia's expression had become apprehensive. "He's loyal to my family. To me."

"I don't know, Alexia. He disobeyed you again," said Wesker, staring at him.

"I was trying to find my dad, and her brother Alfred." Grayson felt like a felon trying to explain himself to the judge. "Otherwise I would have gone to the room. I swear I would have. But my dad, he's the only parent I have left, Dr. Wesker. And Alfred's my friend."

Wesker looked at Alexia. "If he steps out of line again..."

"He won't," said Alexia, with finality.

A few days passed, and the incident felt like something that had happened to someone else, an event he'd read about in a book. Grayson never saw the clean-up guys again, or any junkies, like the one who had attacked him. The roads were clear now, so they packed into the rented Mercedes and drove back to Raccoon in relative silence. Alfred or his father hadn't been aware of what had happened that night. They were up front, chatting about classical music, and discussing plans for their arrival in the Antarctica facility.

They had decided to spend some time in Raccoon City, mostly because Grayson had begged his father and Alexia. It had been a long time since he had been in an actual city, around people, and the modern things they often took for granted because they had never gone without them. His first stop was an arcade. He wanted to forget about what had happened at the Spencer estate, and got lost in a game of Zaxxon, while Alexia played on the Tron machine beside him.

He wanted to know if she would tell him something about what had happened, now that they were away from the estate, and out of Umbrella's earshot. Grayson stared at the bright neon isometrics on his screen. But the trills of the lasers, the woofs of several pixel-explosions, and the pings from Alexia's machine made it somewhat difficult to talk. "What happened back there, Alexia?" he asked, probably louder than he should have. "Like for real."

"I'm not going to tell you in the middle of an arcade," she said, just as loudly.

A few boys about his age were watching them, and they seemed confused. When Grayson looked at them, they turned away and fed quarters into their machines, sipping from paper Coke cups and pretending that they hadn't actually been staring.

"I think those guys were checking you out," he joked, laughing.

Alexia looked behind her, and one of the guys looked at her, smiling like an idiot. She rolled her eyes and turned back to Tron, her face reduced to neon code in the light of the screen. "Can look all they want," she said. "I'm not interested."

They hung around the arcade for a few more hours. It was nighttime by the time they had left. "So about what happened," said Grayson, sipping his soda. He leaned against the streetlight, watching Alexia.

She sighed. "I will tell you one thing. Zombie."

"Zombies aren't real. Guy had to be on drugs," said Grayson, finishing his drink and tossing it into a nearby trash-can, which was already overflowing with paper cups and plates, and crumpled cigarette packs.

"If you're that certain already, why did you even bloody ask?" said Alexia, her head lit from behind in a nimbus of pink neon, from the GAME PALACE sign in the arcade window.

"Because I had his fucking brains on my face. That's why," said Grayson.

Alexia didn't say anything.

"Sorry," he said, automatically.

"No. I should be sorry," she said, and she shook her head.

"I'll be okay, Alexia."

"I need to find out why Bingham did it," she said, pulling her coat a little tighter around her.

" _If_ he did it. Maybe someone else did... whatever he did," said Grayson. He wasn't even sure what she was talking about, and though Bingham had seemed a little weird, he had not seemed dangerous. "You look cold. Want to head back to the hotel? I'll call dad from the payphone."


	9. Part One - Realization

Grayson went inside the arcade, threading his way through the neon maze of game machines, past the blank tired faces of the people who had just gotten off of work, of the tense insomniac jobless, and of the the teenagers who had no plans to go to school in the morning. The payphones were in the back, between the bathroom doors and the concession stand. He took a phone off its cradle and thumbed coins into the change-slot, listening to the ring, and then Alfred's sleepy voice, which was fuzzy from the shitty modulation.

"Yes? Who is it?" asked Alfred, and Grayson heard him stifle a yawn.

Grayson glanced at the clock. It was cheap plastic, rimmed by blue neon, and the time was ten o'clock, right on the dot. "Hey, Alfred. It's Grayson," he said, cradling the phone between his shoulder and head, leaning against the metal divider. He watched someone, greasy-haired and dressed in faded denim, and who undoubtedly was a cokehead, jostling the change machine with a tweaked, impatient look.

"You're still out, Harman?" asked Alfred, and he sounded as if he was accusing him of something.

"Yeah. Alexia and I are hanging out at The Game Palace, in downtown Raccoon," he said. When the cokehead looked at him, Grayson quickly looked away (his father had always told him to never make eye contact with a drug addict on a kick) and stared at the marker doodles on the dividers—names of people who had come and gone from The Game Palace, and several crude drawings of dicks. "We need to get picked up. Dad still up? If he isn't, it's no biggy. We'll take a cab."

"He's up," said Alfred, and he yawned, and the sound came across the line as a sudden burst of static. "My sister better be all right, Harman."

"Alexia's fine," said Grayson.

"For your sake, she better be. Did you want me to put Scott on the phone?"

"No, it's cool."

"All right," said Alfred. "Then I'll see you and Alexia soon." He hung up.

Grayson put the phone back on the cradle. He carefully navigated around the cokehead in a way that didn't seem threatening, and the cokehead stopped and asked him if he had change. Grayson said no, he didn't have any change, and went outside. Alexia was standing on the sidewalk, which was banked by piles of dirty snow, in a pool of sodium streetlight. The guys who had been eyeing her before were talking to her now, and one of them was named Mark, who was tanned and blonde and looked like a farmer's kid, and who seemed to be the most interested in her.

"Hey, Alexia," said Grayson, making his presence known to Mark. He instantly did not like Mark. There was something in his tanned face, in the cocky way he smiled, that pissed Grayson off, and it pissed him off even more that Mark was smiling at Alexia like that.

Mark was taller than him, and was probably fifteen, maybe sixteen. He looked like the sort of guy who captained his high-school football team, and was loved by all the cheerleaders, and by his teachers. He even wore a stupid varsity jacket, and had a strong Midwestern accent. "Who's this, Alexia?"

"You know this guy, Alexia?" asked Grayson, and he realized then that it wasn't just Mark's stupid, cocky smile that pissed him off. It was also his confidence, the way he talked to Alexia like he had a chance. Grayson wondered if Mark even knew that Alexia was thirteen. Alexia did not look thirteen. She looked like she could be sixteen; puberty had hit her with nuclear force.

"This is Grayson Harman, a close friend. He works for my family," said Alexia.

Mark stared at him for a long time, as if he was assessing a potential threat. Then he smiled. "You have people who work for your family?" he asked.

His two friends looked at Alexia as if the fact she had people working for her had, in their eyes, qualified her as some kind of celebrity. Grayson had come to realize that, among his fellow Americans, anyone who happened to have money and a classy British accent were automatically labeled as some distant relative of the Queen, on tour to see how the dirty Colonials lived, as if they even cared how the dirty Colonials lived. "Yeah. I work for her," said Grayson. "My dad's her butler."

"But you're not British," said one of his friends, a thin kid with a snaggletooth, and closely shaved red hair, who wore a gray Members Only jacket and dark jeans.

"Who said a butler had to be British?" asked Grayson, and shook his head.

"Shut up, Nate," said Mark, to the snaggletooth kid. Nate shut up. Mark turned back to Alexia and grinned. "So, Alexia." His tone was smooth and confident, and it made Grayson clench his teeth. "Can I get your number? I gotta car. Just got it, actually. I can pick you up, if that's okay with you."

"I don't live in Raccoon City," said Alexia, and she seemed unimpressed with Mark, which relieved Grayson. "We'll be leaving town soon. Unlike you, I have a career to attend, _Mark_. You're still, what, a freshman in high-school? Sophomore?" She giggled.

"Bullshit you have a career," said Nate. "You're younger than us."

Alexia tapped her skull. "I'm a lot smarter than all of you, I promise."

Mark did not seem fazed by Alexia's insults; in fact, he looked even more interested, and probably saw it as some kind of challenge: break down the ice around the ice-queen. Grayson was fighting himself not to deck Mark in his face, and put a few holes in his cocky white smile. "Aw, come on, Alexia," said Mark. "Okay, so you're not staying. That's fine. Let me take you out on one date."

It was too late before Grayson had realized what he had done: he had punched Mark in the face, square in the nose, and then swung again, hitting him in the temple. Mark went down, and Grayson straddled him, repeatedly nailing Mark in the face with the hard points of his knuckles until his hands started to hurt and bleed. Mark jabbed and caught Grayson in the jaw. It hurt. Then Mark started wailing on him, and they wrestled on the sidewalk, cursing and shouting while his friends cheered Mark and told him to kick the butler's ass.

Mark got him around the waist and tackled Grayson into the building. Grayson banged his head on the brickwork, caught a punch below the eye, and it had hurt deeply. He swung his fist repeatedly into the side of Mark's skull, until Mark let go, and kicked him hard in the stomach. He scooped up a chunk of the sidewalk which had broken away, roughly the size of a softball, and intended to smash Mark's head with it.

And Grayson would have clubbed Mark in the head, and would have probably killed him and not have cared that he had killed him, but strong hands grabbed his shoulders and yanked him away. "Drop the fucking rock, Grayson," came his father's voice, behind him. Grayson dropped it. Then, to Alexia, "What the fuck happened here, kiddo?"

Alexia did not say Grayson had punched Mark first, and Grayson knew she wouldn't. Instead, she said, "The boy was making unwanted advances on me. Grayson stepped in to protect me."

"That's bullshit," said Mark's friend Nate. "That kid swung first. My friend Mark didn't do anything except talk to Alexia."

"Your friend Mark is welcome to try and press charges, but nothing will come of it," said Alexia, and she got into the rented Mercedes, slamming the door shut behind her.

His father told him to get in the car, and Grayson did. He sat next to Alexia in silence, watching his father talking to the boys. "I'm gonna get locked up, or something," he said, without looking at her. He looked at the blood and cuts on his knuckles. "I'm sorry, Alexia. But thanks for trying to cover for me."

"Would you stop?" said Alexia, rolling her eyes. She took the car-phone off its cradle and dialed a number. She waited; Grayson heard it ringing. Someone answered, but Grayson could not hear what the person was saying. "Lord Spencer? We had a bit of an altercation near The Game Palace." Alexia glanced out the window, watching Mark and the boys talking to his father. "Grayson got into a fight with some boys, and bloodied one rather badly." She paused, bobbing her head. "Yes, Grayson. My butler. If the boy—his name is Mark Quinn—or his parents press charges, I'd like it taken care of. I would hate to suffer the inconvenience of a court trial."

Grayson opened his mouth to ask her what was going on, but Alexia held up a finger: _shush_. "Yes, please do. I'm sure Brian Irons will be happy to take the money." She nodded. Then, "Thank you, Lord Spencer. I really do appreciate this." She hung up.

"What happened?" he asked.

"Umbrella is in bed with the Raccoon Police Department, of course," said Alexia, as if he should have already known that. "The Quinns can file charges if they'd like, but it won't go anywhere. And if for whatever reason the charges do go somewhere, Umbrella will take care of them." She did not elaborate on what she meant by taking care of them, and Grayson did not want to know. The more he distanced himself from Umbrella and its activities, the safer, and less complicated, his life would probably be.

His father got behind the wheel, and did not say anything to Grayson. He drove in disappointed silence, past the neon lights of bars and pawn-shops, and the occasional lurid pinks of windowless peepshows. When they arrived at the Hilton, Alfred was already fast asleep under a pile of blankets. The television was still on, and there was an episode of _I Love Lucy_ playing, and Lucy and Ricky were singing Cuban Pete, and dancing something Lucy had called the chick-chicky-boom.

"Grayson, I thought I taught you better than that," said his father, taking off his coat and hanging it neatly on the hook by the door. He started removing his shoes. "I should make you go to the church, do penance."

"It's sorted, Scott," said Alexia. "Needn't worry."

His dad looked at her. There was a kind of knowing in his eyes. Then he nodded, and went to the bathroom, and Grayson heard the shower.

Around midnight, Grayson fell asleep, and was woken by a phone ringing. He heard Alexia, and she was talking to someone, though it did not sound like she was talking to Spencer; the conversation was muted, casual. He got out of bed and watched her pull on her coat.

"Where the hell are you going?" he asked, keeping his voice low.

Alexia looked at him. "Oh. Did I wake you, Grayson? I apologize. I didn't intend to."

"Don't worry about it. Where are you going, Alexia?"

"Work," she said. "Albert just called. They found something interesting regarding the man who attacked you. He wants me down at the Arklay Lab to look at it."

"How are you going to get there?" he asked. "The buses don't run this late, and good luck finding a cab."

"Albert's coming to pick me up. We're taking the Ecliptic," she said.

Grayson frowned. "Oh."

Alexia giggled and pinched his cheek. "Don't look so sad, Grayson. I'll be back," she said. "I promise. By morning."

"I just—after what happened—I don't—it might not be a good idea. To go there, I mean," he said.

"I'll be fine." Alexia leaned up and kissed his cheek, and Grayson's face became hot. "You're adorable when you blush," she added.

"What was that for?" asked Grayson, though it wasn't as if it had been unwelcome. He wished Alexia would kiss him again, but on his lips, and he stood there, awkward, waiting for something like that to happen.

Alexia did not kiss him on the lips. She just smiled and said, "For earlier. I've never seen you so jealous of someone before. It was strangely attractive." She blushed then, as though she had just divulged some dark, girlish secret to him. "I'll be back by morning," she said, moving toward the door. "Make sure Scott knows, and my brother too. I don't want poor Alfred having an aneurysm." Alexia opened the door, and was gone.

Grayson stared at the door, realizing for the first time that Alexia had a crush on him, and that she was just as shy as he was to admit it.


	10. Interlude 3: Eureka

Wesker pulled up in a company car, in front of the hotel. A light winter rain started to fall, and Alexia shivered, climbing into the passenger seat, thankful that Wesker had the heater cranked high. The wipers smeared color across the windshield, rendering the street beyond the glass to an electric watercolor.

He drove, taking a right. "You look awful," he said, conversationally. "Did you sleep yet, Alexia?"

She shook her head and said, "No. I napped earlier this afternoon. Haven't slept since." Alexia rubbed her eyes with the heels of her palms. There was a piney smell of air-freshener in the car which bothered her sinuses, though she did not say anything about it. "I don't sleep much anymore," she admitted. "That said, why did you bloody call me?"

"You'll see," said Wesker, and paused. "You should sleep more," he remarked, like a parent casually suggesting a curfew. "You're still growing."

They drove to the Umbrella facility on the far side of Raccoon, just outside the city in an industrial complex hedged in by electrified chain-link. It seemed more like a military installation than a pharmaceutical plant, Alexia decided.

An armed guard waved them through the gate, after he had checked and verified their IDs. He had stared at her ID much longer than Wesker's, and had called someone on the phone in his watch-office, probably to clarify. Then the guard returned to the car, apologized for the inconvenience, and gave her the ID back.

"Can't blame them for being cautious," said Wesker, parking the car among a row of vacant company vehicles. He got out and took the keys with him. "Not too many thirteen-year-old scientists, Alexia."

They went inside the building, which was all tinted glass and steel lattices, and built in some nameless Kandinsky-futurist style. The lobby was empty, excluding the guard at the front-desk.

The guard was a middle-aged man with a hangdog look, who looked as if he'd been through several divorces, and had just gotten through his latest. He was watching a small black and white television. An episode of the Honeymooners was on, and like usual, Ralph was threatening his wife Alice. If Grayson ever spoke to her like that, Alexia decided, she'd kill him.

"What can I do for you?" asked the middle-aged guard, and he had a strong Brooklyn accent. Alexia recognized the accent from when she had met Grayson's aunt, who had originally been born in Brooklyn, but had moved to Atlantic City.

"We need clearance to the Ecliptic," said Wesker, showing his ID. "I'm a researcher with the Arklay Laboratory."

"Your daughter can't go with you, sir," said the man, gesturing at Alexia.

Alexia grumbled and tossed her ID onto the man's desk. "I'm a researcher with the Umbrella Corporation."

The man looked as if she had just insulted him. He looked at her ID, then turned to his computer and tapped her employee code out on the keys in the slow, careful way older people did whenever they typed. Alexia smelled the Old Spice he wore, and scrunched her nose. "Well, I'll be," said the guard, handing her card back. "Would have never believed that in a million years. But you're in the system, and I think I've heard your name somewhere, come to think of it."

Wesker put his hands on her shoulders and said, "She's something of a rising star in Umbrella."

The guard gave her one last look, as if she was some sort of freakshow attraction, then resumed watching television.

Wesker hurried them through an automated door, past several empty offices and labs, some of which appeared occupied. They rode the lift down and stepped out onto the train platform, where several of the senior Arklay researchers were disembarking, looking disheveled and wanting nothing more than to sleep. The researchers walked right past them as if they were ghosts, and piled in the elevator, gone. Dimly, a voice announced that the train was about to depart, and Wesker told her to move.

Alexia always wondered why the Ecliptic had been designed with so much pointless opulence, when it was a limited express train that only ran between Raccoon, and perhaps a handful of Umbrella facilities peppered throughout the Arklays. It looked like an elongated Victorian smoking room lit by electric chandeliers, and smelled of non-filter cigarettes and whiskey. There was nobody on the train either.

They did not talk at all. Alexia entertained herself by reading travel pamphlets she had found under her seat, which had probably belonged to some stressed middle-aged researcher looking to vacation in the Caribbean.

The train came to a smooth stop. Alexia stowed the pamphlets under the chair and followed Wesker onto the Arklay platform. They were underground, in a place of cold concrete and metal. Wesker led her through an automated door, after they had scanned their IDs at the check-in terminal. The halls here were medical white, lit by fluorescent tubes.

They passed several laboratories behind large squares of shatterproof glass, and automatic doors which were labeled HAZARD in stenciled print. Wesker entered one of these laboratories, where William Birkin was scribbling on a clipboard, the zombie they had recovered from the mansion displayed on a stainless steel slab like a corpse in a medical examiner's office.

Birkin looked agitated, then tired, the skin under his eyes an unhealthy shade of brown. "If I had it my way, I'd tell you to take a hike, Ashford." He wore a blue shirt, tie, and a rumpled lab coat, and had the hollow, unkempt appearance of a drug addict who had finally started to come off a kick.

Alexia ignored him. She took off her coat and put on a lab coat; though it was a bit too big for her, so she had to roll up the sleeves. "What am I looking at precisely, Albert?" she asked, staring at the dead man. She stifled a yawn. "It looks like a typical carrier."

"You would think," said Wesker, putting on a lab coat and passing a stapled packet of print-outs to her. "Look."

She did. The readout was odd, she decided; it didn't follow the trend of the usual carrier. The data was erratic, indicating there was some intense cellular activity at work. "This is strange," she said, staring at the partially decomposed body, half-expecting it to move again. "But this only gives me an idea. What have you and Birkin found?" She handed the print-outs back to Wesker. "Obviously you've been handling this specimen longer than I have. And you did say you found something interesting."

Birkin nodded. "Okay, so we have a few ideas." When he talked, Birkin talked with his hands; Alexia could not decide if it was habit, or if it was because Birkin had had too much caffeine, and could not sit still. "So Mr. Nigel Black—that's our friend here on the slab—turned slowly. This virus? When the host is injected, they get sick. Real sick. Then they die, and get reanimated into one of these ugly fuckers." He gestured at the body. "But it gets interesting from there. Tell her, Albert."

"We synthesized a copy of the virus from the strain present in the body, and had tested it on a few hosts," explained Wesker, moving to the computer mounted to the op-slab and tapping something out on the keys. Alexia observed the screen, which showed the lettered sequences of Nigel's DNA and depicted some peculiar mutations in the genetic string. "The short of it? The virus causes rapid mutations by modifying DNA sequences in real-time. Essentially, it actively re-writes these sequences to create—and I use this term lightly—superhumans. Death seemed to be the trigger for Mr. Black here."

"Trigger?" asked Alexia. Her interest was piqued now. She looked at Nigel Black. "He doesn't look much like a superhuman to me."

"That's the shitty thing about the virus," said Birkin, leaning against a table littered with tools and papers. "Death triggers the virus—we still don't exactly understand how—and reanimates the corpse. In a perfect scenario, the person would be reanimated as a fully sentient, fully functioning Superman. The virus gives the host increased strength and stamina, sure, but decomposition settles in pretty quickly. Our theory is there's a typo the virus is making when it's re-writing the DNA sequences, and those typos result in this." He gestured at Nigel.

Alexia nodded. "I see," she said, pushing her hands inside the pockets of her lab coat.

"If we can fix these typos," said Wesker, grinning, "we could perfect the virus, Alexia. Bingham was on to something big. Huge. If he manages to work the kinks out, Umbrella could be facing a new golden age in genetic modification."

Alexia understood now what Spencer had meant. He had told her to work with Bingham, and had rewarded her with the Antarctica facility when she'd agreed. At first, she had thought nothing of it, that Spencer had only wanted her to oversee Bingham's work. But Spencer knew about the errors. He knew she could help Bingham fix them, and Alexia knew she could too, given time.

Suddenly, Alexia no longer cared that there had almost been an outbreak at the Spencer estate, and that she could have died. Bingham was her springboard, a conduit to something greater within the Umbrella Corporation. And he would be working right under her at the Antarctica facility.


	11. Part One - Candid Talks

His fight with Mark had left him with a bruised jaw, a black eye, and absolutely no criminal record. The favor Alexia had called in from Spencer had worked; whatever Spencer had done, it had saved him from a court trial, and possibly a stint in juvy. They left Raccoon by the end of the week and flew to Antarctica, where Alexia would start her term as the facility director.

The facility was large, and mostly underground, a concrete bunker full of labs and offices. It reminded Grayson of an ant colony; the researchers here had their places, certain functions within the proverbial hive, and they operated flawlessly, as if guided by some strange pheromone language. Alexia had explained the facility and its operation exclusively in ant terms, and Grayson supposed that was why he'd started to see everything as a colony dynamic.

They settled into the mansion. It vaguely reminded him of the Spencer estate (Alexia reminded him that it had also been built by George Trevor, the man whose 1963 Impala they had found in the woods) or the abandoned set of some forgotten silver-screen movie, like the mansions used in Shirley Temple films. The foyer was large, all sparkling marble in the glow of the art deco chandelier, which gave the place a sort of museum feel. There was a large staircase that wound up into the balustrade, which spanned the room like a bridge. It smelled of expensive cigars and some nameless sweet fragrance, like dead flowers.

Grayson's room was on the second floor, down the hall from the twins' rooms. It looked as if nobody had ever slept there; there was a show-room quality to the place, like the displays in a furniture store. The furniture was antique, and the walls were wainscoted in cherry wood. There was a new television in here, and Grayson wondered if Alexia had bought it for him. The thought made him smile involuntarily.

The room was stuffy, so he kept the door open while he unpacked and stored his clothes in the dresser, and in the closet. He became aware of someone standing behind him; it was Alexia. Alexia had a specific presence, a certain way she filled space that Grayson never needed to look to know it was her. "Would you not sneak up on me like that?" he asked, folding his socks and putting them away.

Alexia hugged him around the waist; Grayson was surprised, because Alexia was very rarely a touchy person. She was a lot like a cat, coming and going as she pleased, and only ever wanting affection when it was convenient for her. "Sorry, did I scare you?" she asked, and he heard the smile in her voice.

"No. But you hugging me is kind of scary," he said. It had been an automatic response. Grayson was skittish and awkward when it came to most physical contact. His father had never been very affectionate, and neither were the twins.

"That's just too bad, isn't it?" she said, squeezing.

As Grayson turned around to look at her, Alexia kissed him, and it had been an awkward full-on-the-mouth kiss, of the uncertain teenage kind. His mind stalled, and just as he had finally composed a coherent thought—that Alexia was actually kissing him, and that he wanted to kiss her back—the kiss was over, and Alexia stood there in the orange rectangle of the doorway, awkward.

"So I wanted to show you my office," she said, clearing her throat and fiddling with her black tie.

Grayson wanted to say he'd enjoyed the kiss, but only managed to say, somewhat clumsily, "Sure. Let's go check out your office." He mentally kicked himself for screwing up a perfect opportunity; but the damage was done, and the moment had passed.

He was sure Alexia was upset. She had that subtle disappointed look people often wore when things did not go quite as they'd wanted, but they didn't want to show that things hadn't gone quite as they'd wanted, because they were too proud and stubborn. Alexia left the room, and Grayson followed.

Alfred came down the hallway, reading a book. Grayson saw the title: A HISTORY OF MODERN WARFARE, in embossed Times New Roman. It seemed well-worn: the leather spine was covered in thumb-smudges, and the cover had creases in it, from frequent opening. When Alexia walked past him without saying hello, Alfred looked at Grayson as if he wanted to accuse him of something.

Alfred waited until Alexia had gone, then spoke. "What the bloody hell did you do to my sister, Harman?" He glanced in the direction Alexia had vanished and snapped his book shut, tucking it under a thin pale arm, the antique Rolex on his wrist glinting in the light. He wore a gray argyle sweater-vest, and black dickies. "She looked as if she wanted to strangle someone," he added. "Probably you."

"Alexia kissed me," said Grayson, without thinking.

Grayson expected Alfred to get angry, but Alfred did not get angry. He seemed strangely calm. "She kissed you." He did not sound surprised.

"She did."

Alfred bobbed his head. "And you didn't kiss her back," he said.

"I didn't."

Alfred shook his pale head in a slow disappointed way, his expression grave and unsmiling, like the sort of expressions found in daguerreotype photographs.

"I know. You seem mad about it. Are you?"

"I'm not mad about the kiss. I'm mad that you're an insufferable idiot." Alfred sighed theatrically. "Alexia's been drooling over you since she was old enough to notice that sort of thing, Harman. It's actually quite disgusting. I don't understand what she sees in a scruffy yank like you."

"She has?" he said, surprised. He had known that night in Raccoon that Alexia had liked him, but hadn't been aware it had been for long. "This has been going—"

"For several years." Alfred rolled his eyes and motioned for him: _come with me._ They walked toward Alfred's room, side by side. "I'm rather certain we were around nine-years-old when the crush started. It drove me absolutely mad, Harman. Still drives me mad. She talks about you a lot, when you're not around. We could be discussing birds, and Alexia would somehow work you into the discussion. 'Oh, Grayson likes those sort of birds', or 'that crow reminds me of Grayson, Alfred. It's black like his hair'." Alfred made a face, like he'd just smelled dog shit. "Typical girlish drivel. It's nauseating. My sister is a prodigy, a genius, Umbrella's youngest scientist, and its brightest mind. And yet she coos over a dumb oaf like you."

Grayson blushed. He never knew Alexia had been that serious about it. Alexia always came off as very disinterested in everything. But Grayson supposed that was Alexia's way of coping with things beyond her scope of know-how—to pretend she didn't care about things that she did not know about, and to wait for those things to go away. "And she said all this stuff to you? You sound jealous, Alfred."

"Jealous?" Alfred stopped in front of his bedroom door and looked at him. "I suppose I am. But don't misunderstand, Harman. My sister is my sister, and I care about her a great deal, in the way a good brother should. She's my twin. My best friend."

"I'm not trying to put a rift between you and Alexia, Alfred. Sure, I like her. I've had a crush on her for a long time. But you're her brother, man."

"I suppose I'm just not used to sharing Alexia. The thought of losing her to romantic foolishness doesn't sit well with me." Alfred frowned, looking uncomfortable. "That's how siblings drift apart," he said. "They find someone, and then they stop talking to their brother because they're too busy with their significant other."

"I feel like it would be different for twins," said Grayson, hands in the pockets of his bulky denim jacket. He shrugged, studying the rubber toes of his shoes. "Besides, it's not like I'm marrying her. And even if I was, and this was a decade from now, it wouldn't change anything, Alfred. You're an Ashford, and I'm a Harman. Harmans go wherever Ashfords do."

Alfred scoffed. "Alexia is an Ashford. Noble-born. Why would she marry the help?"

"I don't know. Why don't you ask her?"

"Point taken," said Alfred, sighing. "In the end, Alexia will do whatever she wants, and I'll not object. My dear sister's happiness is more important to me than your dubious pedigree, Harman." He opened the door and stepped inside his room. "Mutt," he added, then shut the door in his face.

Grayson laughed. Alfred's standoffishness didn't bother him anymore; it was a chronic component of his personality, a new and permanent wrinkle in Alfred's cerebral cortex. Grayson made his way toward the foyer, deciding he'd find Alexia's office himself, and apologize and explain why he'd hesitated. He thought of several scenarios, none of which seemed very good. They were clumsy replications of scenes he'd seen in romantic comedies, as an Asperger's patient might have directed them. Grayson resigned to the fact he'd probably fuck up, because he really had no idea how to approach the issue.

Grayson had been so preoccupied with his thoughts that he hadn't immediately realized Martin Bingham hovering over him. Bingham wore a black suit and lab coat, and looked immensely pleased about something. His wavy salt-pepper hair was slicked against his skull, and his beard was a bit longer now, neatly trimmed and waxed. "Grayson, it's nice to see you again," he said.

"Dr. Bingham?" said Grayson. He had not expected Bingham to show up at the Antarctica facility, after what had happened at the Spencer estate.

"You look as if you've seen a ghost, Grayson."

"People from your lab got sick," said Grayson.

Bingham nodded. "So I had heard. I wasn't aware until Spencer informed me. In our line of work, we're exposed to some nasty things, Grayson."

"Those people died, Dr. Bingham."

"A necessary measure, Grayson. They were going to die anyway." He paused, watching Grayson with pale gray eyes. "Where were you headed?"

"To see Alexia," said Grayson.

"Oh, good. So was I. I came to the mansion hoping to find her."

"She's not here. She's in her office."

"Ah. Shall we go together then? I know where it is."

They walked in silence. Grayson never realized how tall Bingham was until they stood side by side. Bingham seemed to loom, sort of stooped in a way that made Grayson think of a crane, or a very tall weed.

His father was outside. The room the mansion had been built in had been designed like the outside, and it was summer in the outside. There was a hydroponic system that allowed the yard to grow grass, and actual plants. His father was tending the flowers; he'd started a new garden here.

His father wore his yard clothes—an old T-shirt and jeans—and was outlining a new flower-bed with the hose. When he saw Bingham, he said, "Dr. Bingham. She wasn't in there, huh?"

Bingham shook his head. "Afraid not," he said. "She's in her office, apparently."

"Sounds like Alexia," said his father, shaking his head and running a hand back through his dark hair. He looked at the ground. "This hydroponic stuff isn't as good as the real thing. But Alexander wanted flowers..."

"Unfortunately, it's the best we can do, several feet under the Antarctic permafrost as we are," said Bingham amiably. "You'll get used to it. Now, if you'll excuse us, we're going to go pester Director Ashford."

His father nodded. Then said to Grayson, "Your ass better be back here by dinner, kiddo. And make sure you drag Alexia's ass back. I'm not going to listen to her bullshit about not being hungry." His father stood, wiped his hands on his jeans and extended his right hand to Bingham. "Nice meeting you, Dr. Bingham."

Bingham shook his father's hand and smiled. "Nice meeting you as well, Mr. Harman."

"Please, call me Scott. You ever find yourself with some free-time, join me down in the staff bar for a few drinks." His father grinned with white teeth, then returned to his gardening.

"Your father's a nice fellow," commented Bingham, as they walked into the facility, where the fake summer sky gave way to concrete, pipe-lines, and web-works of cables and wires. They rode a lift down. "He's awfully friendly with the director, however. He told you to 'drag her ass back'."

"My dad practically raised Alfred and Alexia," said Grayson. "Alexander—I mean, Dr. Ashford, sorry—was too busy with his research for Umbrella, so he was pretty hands-off. Dad changed their diapers, bathed them, fed them, whooped their asses when they were bad. They're pretty much his kids, so he gets away with a lot of shit because the twins respect him more than their own dad. Dr. Ashford just bought them fancy things. I don't remember him ever changing a single diaper, or ever hugging the twins, or doing the usual stuff dads are supposed to do. Dr. Ashford wasn't even present at Alexia's university graduation. My dad went instead, and he was the one in the audience crying and cheering for her."

The lift stopped. They stepped out. There was a large ant-hive in the middle of the room; Grayson wondered how it had gotten there. "It's for Alexia's research, as I understand it," said Bingham, gesturing at the swollen perforated mass. "So you grew up with the twins?"

"Yeah," said Grayson. "Alexia's my best friend." They walked along a catwalk which ringed the room, then turned left, down a short hall. There was a large vault-looking door at the end of the hall, which Grayson imagined might have been the gates to Tartarus. A regular wooden door stood on their left. There was a brass plaque mounted beside the door, the words ALEXIA ASHFORD, FACILITY DIRECTOR engraved there.

"The director certainly seems fond of you. You two were attached at the hip, back at the Spencer estate." Bingham grinned, then knocked on the door. "You don't mind waiting a moment, do you, Grayson? I have to chat with the director about work."

"Sure," said Grayson, moving off to the side. "I'll wait here."


	12. Interlude 4: It's Okay

Alexia couldn't decide if she should be humiliated, angry, or sad. Had Grayson disliked the kiss? Grayson hadn't pushed her away, and she was sure that was a good sign... She pushed aside the paper-clipped stack of staff reports on her desk, ignoring the fax that had just printed from her machine—probably another resume she would undoubtedly reject, or allow to stew in the slush-pile until someone from HR got on her about it.

She heard a knock at the door, and really didn't want to answer it. "Come in," she said.

Martin Bingham stepped inside, smiling like a political ad. "Director Ashford," he said, with work-place cordiality.

"Bingham?" Alexia hadn't expected Bingham, but was glad he was here. She'd wanted to talk about the prototype virus since that night she'd spoken to Birkin and Wesker in the Arklay lab. "I didn't expect to see you after that little stunt you pulled at the Spencer estate." She kept her tone professional, cool.

"Brilliant work, don't you think?" he said, grinning. "That's actually what I wanted to talk to you about." Bingham sat down in the overlarge leather chair opposite her desk, fingers brushing the perfect knot in his tie. He wore a silver tie-pin worked in the shape of a schooner. "I need a few things for the medical facilities, if I'm to continue working on my magnum opus. I know you can put the requisition in."

"If it was a facilities requisition you were looking for, you could have simply called," said Alexia, waving at her phone. Then, "What did you have to gain from infecting those people? You put your colleagues lives in jeopardy, and more importantly, mine." She wasn't actually mad, but felt it was something that needed to be said for the sake of appearance.

"I made them better," said Bingham, still smiling. "Of course, I made a small miscalculation, and they turned sooner than I'd hoped. Even so, data is data. It's for a great thing, Alexia. You know we make sacrifices in this company to achieve greatness. Your grandfather helped build this company on that very principle: _experimentation without subjection_. You know all those annoying little ethical parameters most companies in the Pharmaceutical Consortium push for... it really stems one's creativity. I mean, you have religious whack-jobs who've been hemorrhaging progress since forever, all that nonsense about stem cells and killing innocent babies."

"I understand sacrifices," said Alexia. "But your subjects could have infected us, if it hadn't been for Spencer's clean-up detail."

"My dear girl, I was the one who'd suggested the clean-up detail to Spencer," said Bingham, chuckling. "Fail-safes. You know how it goes, Director. Even so, my guinea pigs are incapable of infecting anything; though they're very capable of killing, which is why I'd suggested the clean-up detail go on stand-by."

"They can't infect anything?" she asked, watching him.

Bingham shook his head. "The virus needs to be intravenously administered," he explained. "I gain nothing from rampant infections. My goal is to create the perfect superhuman. Not shoddy mass-produced weapons."

"Seems your calculations are still a bit off, Dr. Bingham. Your subjects turned, and one nearly killed Grayson."

"I'm aware of the rapid decomposition, but that's where _you_ come in." Bingham grinned. His teeth were the dull white of old ivory. "As for Grayson, I apologize. It wasn't my intention to put anyone in danger. But you know, accidents do happen, Director—and quite frequently within Umbrella."

"Lord Spencer wants us to work together," she said. "I figured that out, back in Arklay. Birkin and Wesker compiled some interesting data on the one specimen they recovered, and forwarded it to the lab here. As I hear it, Birkin's using what they've learned to start working on something called the G-Virus."

Bingham laughed. "Goodness," he said, as if Alexia had just told him a funny joke. "He won't get very far without my insight, but best of luck to him. Perhaps he'll develop something half-viable, at best."

"Is there any particular reason why, besides vanity, you're developing superhumans, Dr. Bingham?"

"In science, it's all about vanity, dear. Scientists are ultimately selfish. They want notoriety as the grand discoverer of some enormous break-through. They want to be the next Louis Pasteur, Marie Curie, Albert Einstein, Nikola Tesla. Of course, you've your purported 'good guys' who claim they want to help people; but I don't quite buy into that particular brand of bullshit. In certain circles, they're already discussing the possibility of _patenting_ parts of the human genome."

"So that's it. Vanity," said Alexia, though she did understand that. Her own research was vain, and she knew it.

"Part of it," said Bingham, standing up. "Lord Spencer is dying. As you know, he's quite old. He wants us to develop something to spare him the cold Epicurean void of non-existence. And if that's how I can secure my funding, I'll gladly let him continue thinking that Project Wesker is for his benefit. Just as Dr. Wesker did when the whole program started."

"You shouldn't speak poorly of Lord Spencer," warned Alexia.

"There's a lot you don't know about Lord Spencer, Alexia," said Bingham, smiling emptily. Then, as if he was commenting on tomorrow's weather forecast, he said, "I've been meaning to ask. When did you intend to kill your father?"

Alexia went cold. She hadn't told anyone but Alfred about her plans, and Alfred would never betray her trust, even under duress. She wanted to know how Bingham had found out about it, but decided it did not ultimately matter. It had been Bingham's warning to her: _tell Spencer my plans, and I tell him yours_. "I don't know what you're talking about," she lied.

"Alexia, I know what you're planning to do with the T-Veronica. And mind you, I never said I was against it." Bingham adjusted his lab coat. "Alexander deserves it for what he did to you and your brother. Creating children that he didn't even want, and for what? He couldn't stand being the black sheep anymore." He shook his head and sucked his teeth. "Remember what I said about science being vain?" he asked. "You and your brother were engineered for the very reason of vanity."

"How do you know all of this?" she asked, stunned. She had even stammered a little.

"I knew your grandfather, of course. You weren't the first Alexia. You were just the one that worked."

"Not the first?"

"You don't have any evil twin sisters hanging about somewhere, so you needn't worry. They all failed. You know how trial and error goes. All stillbirths, dead in the surrogate womb." He started toward the door, then stopped. "Oh." Bingham looked at her. "Just a favor? Don't kill your father yet. There's something I need to talk with him about. Something very important. I look forward to working with you, Director, and I'll fax you my requisition list." Bingham left.

Alexia felt strangely hollow, as if she'd somehow become less real. She had known she was a clone. But Alexia had never known there had been others like her, and that thought disturbed her deeply.

Grayson appeared in the office. He wore a denim jacket, jeans, and worn canvas shoes. He seemed uncertain of something. "Alexia? You look like shit." He glanced back at the door. "Bingham say something?" he asked.

She walked over and hugged Grayson. Alexia liked being close to him, where she could smell his denim, feel his warmth. And the thought made her feel stupid because it was so embarrassing, reducing herself to some terrible Harlequin romance girl. "No. I'm okay," she lied.


	13. Part One - End - The Investigation

Grayson hadn't expected to be hugged. He had expected Alexia to be angry with him, and had expected a fight. It would not have been one of those screaming matches—Alexia and him seldom ever fought obtrusively—but it would have been a quiet, passive-aggressive match, a cold war. He was glad that wasn't the case; in those fights, they could, and often did, go days without speaking, and Grayson hated when Alexia didn't speak to him.

Grayson slid his arms around her waist, contemplating whether or not it was too premature. Alexia didn't seem to mind; she didn't tell him to stop, and did not move away. "You're upset about something," he said, over the hum of her lab machines, and the annoying rattle of the vents.

"Bingham did say something," said Alexia, without elaboration. She asked, "Grayson, would you think differently of me if I wasn't like other girls?" and looked at him, as if the fate of the world depended on his answer.

"What are you talking about, Alexia? You're being super weird," said Grayson. He'd never seen Alexia look so earnest about a question. "Did Bingham tell you that you were an adopted child, or something?" He laughed; but Alexia did not laugh.

"I'm a clone, Grayson," she said, and her expression didn't change. It seemed to darken, like a shadow passed over it, a femme fatale mood-shot from some noir film.

"You're a clone," he repeated, and the words left an odd feeling in his mouth, as if Grayson had tried to pronounce some foreign word and hadn't quite gotten it. "Bullshit," he added. "Clones are science fiction things. You're not a clone."

"I was created," said Alexia, staring at him, her fingers digging into his back. "My father took DNA from my ancestor Veronica Ashford—I mentioned the name to you before—and implanted it in a surrogate egg. I don't even know who my mother is, Grayson. Just that she was a rented body."

Grayson should have been more skeptical about the claim; but there was something in Alexia's voice which told him it was not bullshit, and that this knowledge—that she was a synthetic human—was eating at her. The idea of Alexia being synthetic—and Grayson did not like to use that term, because she was as real as he was, with a heart, lungs, a brain—did not bother him. "So what?" he said, and smiled. "Far as I'm concerned, you're as real as the next human. I can touch you, talk to you. You're fine." He paused, then said, as if telling her a secret, "Besides, you came out with the better deal. Your traits were hand-picked. You weren't pulling from the genetic raffle. Never had to worry about a weird nose, or a neanderthal forehead, or crooked teeth."

"You're an asshole," said Alexia, and laughed.

"Could have ended up like me! With this goofy nose, or all this hair."

"Shut up, Grayson." Alexia grinned. "You're just fishing for compliments. You're handsome."

Alexia had caught him red-handed; he had been fishing for compliments. Grayson kissed her. He could tell the kiss had caught Alexia by surprise. She froze, but the hesitation didn't last long, and Alexia kissed him back. This time, the kiss was less awkward, as if the fact he'd kissed her first had allayed Alexia's fears of an unrequited crush. And she threw herself into the kiss, and Grayson suddenly felt like the guys he'd seen in the movies, when they had finally swooned their dream-girl.

But there was something else in the kiss, Grayson decided. An intense possessiveness in it, like this was Alexia's brand, a way of telling him that she owned him now. Alexia broke away and smiled, in the way someone might smile when they had finally acquired some elusive collectible. She toyed with a button on his denim jacket. Then she asked, "Is that why you came down here, Grayson?"

"Actually, I came down to apologize for dropping the ball. But the kiss is better." Grayson moved away from Alexia and peeked inside her laboratory annex. There were terrariums in here, large glass cylinders filled with sand and ants. A stainless steel table with a microscope, several glass flasks, and an IBM computer, which looked fairly new. Bright neon green lattices of code unfolded on the screen. The light in here was dim and cold, reminded him of the lighting in an aquarium.

"This is where I'm starting the preliminary work on my research," said Alexia, brushing past him. She stopped in front of the tanks, watching the ants scurrying in the zigzagging tunnels of the colony. "I've been studying the sample of Bingham's prototype, which Wesker and Birkin extracted from the specimen they'd recovered in the Spencer estate...

"The drug addict?" he said, confused. Grayson had no idea what Umbrella would want with a junky.

"Sure. The junky." Alexia made a small adjustment to her lab coat, then sat on an upholstered stool. She peered into her microscope, studying something in a petri dish. "The virus has amazing regenerative properties. I've been brainstorming ways to preserve the cells, so the virus doesn't destroy—much like cancer—perfectly healthy cells. So far, I've been unsuccessful. Cellular degradation is alarmingly rapid. I need to stabilize it."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," said Grayson, leaning on the table beside her, careful not to knock over her petri dishes because he was afraid they contained some sort of flesh-eating bacteria.

"Doesn't matter," said Alexia, and shook her head. "It gave me an idea, however. With the right tweaks to the viral make-up—and I will work those kinks out in time, I assure you—Bingham's prototype can prove invaluable to my T-Veronica research."

"T-Veronica research?" asked Grayson. He didn't like the way that sounded. "Don't tell me you're fucking around with a virus, Alexia. Like Bingham."

"I know what I'm doing," said Alexia, glowering at him.

"You're only thirteen. I don't care how smart you are. You shouldn't be fucking around with DNA." This was exactly how horror movies started: a scientist scrambled some guy's DNA, then created a gene-spliced monster that ate people. "DNA is probably the most precarious material a scientist could ever fuck around with," he continued. "One bad, tiny move is all it takes to completely fuck someone up. Look at what happened in The Fly. You know, the Al Hedison movie with Patricia Owens and Vincent Price."

"Only you would start off shouting about how I don't know what I'm doing, then go off-tangent about a movie," said Alexia, and sighed.

"It was a good movie," he said, defensively.

"Grayson."

"I still don't think you should be fucking around with this sort of stuff, Alexia."

"It's my job, Grayson. I'm a virologist. It's only preliminary research right now."

"Still don't like it."

She turned around in her stool and kissed him, probably to shut him up.

"That isn't fair, Alexia," he said, frowning.

"Life isn't fair," she said, grinning. Alexia returned to her work, occasionally scribbling notes in a little flip-pad beside her microscope. At a glance, it was a bunch of scientific jargon he didn't understand, mathematical equations that were more letters and symbols than actual numbers. "You know," she said, conversationally. "Bingham said something interesting."

"About you being a clone?" he asked. "Who cares. So you're a clone. It's actually kind of cool."

"No, not that. But thank you anyway." Alexia looked up from her microscope, watching him. "He mentioned something called Project Wesker."

"You think it's tied to Albert somehow?"

"Yes. Though Bingham claimed it was started by another Dr. Wesker," she said.

"Probably. Albert's only like, what, twenty-two, or something?"

"Twenty-tree," corrected Alexia. "He wasn't the Dr. Wesker who started it. He's too young." She put her hands in her lap and stared at the ants in the tanks, biting her bottom lip in an almost anxious way. "My theory is he was either a subject, or perhaps a relative to Dr. Wesker. I intend to do some digging into the project's background, now that my new clearances have come through from the Board."

"Why?" he asked, and shrugged. "I mean, what's the point. Past is past."

"Curiosity mostly," said Alexia. "Spencer wants me to work with Bingham on his prototype project. Digging into this Project Wesker business might turn up some valuable information on Bingham. I have quite the work-load, it seems."

"Good to always know who you're working with," said Grayson, understanding. "And the guy's fucking enigmatic, so I get why you want to know what his deal is." He shivered involuntarily, and could not decide if it had been because they were talking about Bingham, or because it was cold in the annex. "Jesus, he gives me the creeps. He's like... you know how in some ghost stories, there's sometimes this all-knowing character who guides the protagonist through the shit, but you later find out they're secretly some powerful spirit in disguise, and that it has its own malevolent agenda, usually in the form of possession or stealing souls? That's the feeling I get from Bingham. That he's an evil spirit trying to lure the living into a trap, so he can steal their fucking soul."

"Ghosts aren't real, Grayson," said Alexia matter-of-factly.

"But what if he _is_ a ghost, or like a demon or something, and he's just trying to possess you?"

"Then we should be glad your father's a Roman Catholic. Maybe he can perform an exorcism? Throw some salt on Bingham. Spike his coffee with holy water. Put a rosary on the door that's been blessed by the bloody Pope."

"I think you need a license from the Vatican for that, or some shit," said Grayson, seriously.

Alexia rolled her eyes. "Never mind, Grayson."

"Oh, speaking of dad," said Grayson, remembering what his father had said outside the mansion. "He said to drag your ass back to the mansion for dinner. Said he wouldn't listen to any of that bullshit about you not being hungry."

"I don't suppose I have a choice in it, do I?"

"Nope. You think dad's scared to whoop your ass with a belt if you don't listen? You know how much he likes that belt."

Alexia frowned, probably remembering the sting of it on her ass. Alexia had only ever gotten the belt a few times when she'd been younger, but it had left an impression. Alfred had gotten it more than her, and Grayson had gotten it more than either of the twins. "Point taken," she said. "Besides, I can look into that Project Wesker business while I'm at the mansion, without worrying about being intruded on."

"I can help," he offered. "I mean, it's just looking through files and stuff, right? And there's probably a lot you'll have to sift through."

She smiled and said, "I'm not supposed to. The data is likely classified, especially if the project in ongoing."

"Who's going to know?" said Grayson, flashing teeth. There were no cameras in the mansion; the whole mansion was a black-zone on the facility grid.

"As long as you can keep your mouth shut," she said.


	14. Part Two - Sign Here

The next few days were spent sifting through records that Alexia had procured from the company archives. It had been slow-going; Alexia often worked long hours, sometimes upwards of sixteen-hour shifts, and she would be too tired when she returned to the mansion, and he was too brain-numb from all his homework to care very much about the files.

They had not found anything substantial on Project Wesker, and they could not find anything on Martin Bingham prior to his current file. It was as if Bingham had not existed before the 1980s, a ghost made real. Grayson was leafing through a worn manila folder, the edges age-dark, a faint smell of must on the yellowing papers stapled inside. They seemed to be company records, dated 1961, when Umbrella had only existed as a research group in Africa, and as a loose confederation of money-hungry scientists. It detailed a laboratory that had been set up in Africa, and something called the Stairway to the Sun, a flower worshiped by a local tribe called the Ndipaya.

"Look at this, Alexia," said Grayson, and showed her the folder.

They sat in her room, amid glittering Victoriana and arterial red-papered walls, in the dim incandescent lamp-glow. Alexia had been sorting through a stack of folders in the middle of the room, on a square of Persian rug, and she looked annoyed and tired. She took the folder from him and glanced over it, expressionless. Her brow creased in concentration, as if reading the contents required her full attention, and the slightest distraction would completely unravel any understanding she might have had of the material.

Grayson sat beside her, reading the report. He did not really understand what was being talked about. Something called the progenitor, and that Edward planned to do something with it, alongside his partner Martin Wesker.

He pointed at the name. "It mentions Martin Wesker," he said.

"It says he was present at the African lab," said Alexia, leafing through the other papers, a smell that distinctly reminded Grayson of bananas filling the air, from the dusty age on the pages. He sneezed, and Alexia said _bless you_. "Wait. What's this?" She slipped something from the folder—it was a monochrome photograph, dated 1960. AFRICAN EXPEDITION was written in black felt-pen on the back of it.

Grayson took the photograph. It portrayed four men, dressed in expeditionary clothes, and they stood in front of a canvas tent. The one man was tall, and Alexia told him that was Edward. Another was slightly shorter than Edward, who Grayson recognized was Spencer, though he was much younger in the photograph. The third man was short, and Grayson knew his face from the Spencer estate: James Marcus. He could not really identify the fourth man. His features were blurry, as if he had moved while the photo had been taken. The mystery man was the tallest of the four scientists; his hair was dark, and he had a thin face with high cheek-bones, though that was all Grayson could really make out. Still, there was something very familiar about the man, as if Grayson had passed him once, but could not quite recall the specifics of his appearance.

"I think that's Martin Wesker," said Alexia, taking the photograph and stowing it inside the folder.

"Which means we're on the right track." Grayson turned to the pile of folders he'd been looking through and started to root through them, looking for anything that might seem relevant to the African Expedition. He searched for three hours, but did not find anything else on the expedition, or on Martin Wesker. "It's like someone deliberately got rid of this shit, Alexia," he said aloud. "That folder was probably an oversight. Bury something deep enough, and you forget about it."

"Perhaps there's something buried in these files that I've overlooked," she said, staring at Bingham's current file, and the African Expedition file, in her lap.

"Hey. Your dad's office was Edward's office, right?" he asked, looking at her.

"Yes, it—" Alexia stopped, grinned suddenly and kissed him on the mouth—"Sometimes you're inadvertently brilliant, Grayson. Grandfather might have kept personal records on Martin Wesker."

"And the folder _did_ say Wesker was doing something with Edward," he said, grinning. "It was probably Project Wesker."

"Of course, father won't let me go rifling around his office."

"He wanted to talk to me about something anyway. I'll keep him busy," said Grayson.

Alexander hadn't specifically told him what he'd wanted to speak about, just that Grayson should speak with him when it was convenient. They rarely ever spoke, and when they did speak, the conversations were always brief, disinterested on Alexander's end. Alexander was a ghost in the lives of the twins, a shadow gliding along the wall, a junky whose only concern was the high, and his habit was research. He took more interest in his personal work than his kids. The only interaction Alexander ever really had with either of the twins, Grayson had observed, was over the phone, while he was on one of his many business trips abroad, or when he'd placate them with meaningless, expensive gifts from European custom shops. Then Alexander would be gone again, ghosting out of their lives, leaving the twins in the care of his father who, as far as Grayson was concerned, was their father. Though Grayson didn't like to think about it like that; it made his relationship with Alexia too awkward.

Alexander met with him in one of the several drawing rooms of the mansion, where he'd often entertained suits from the Board of Directors, or military dignitaries who were interested in buying his product, whatever that product might be. Alexander was dressed in a vanilla-colored suit, and a pink silk tie. His red hair was meticulously styled.

"Don't look so scared, Grayson. I'm only here to go over something with you," said Alexander, placing a paper on the coffee table between them. Alexander had a very mellow voice, as if he was always teetering on the precipice of falling asleep, or perhaps operating on a constant mild high. "There's been a change in the company's health compliance." He smiled, but there was something in his smile that Grayson did not trust, like Alexander was trying to sell him a faulty car. "It's very standard stuff. Everyone in Umbrella has to agree to this compliance change. All I need is a signature."

"I'm only fifteen, sir," said Grayson. As far as he knew, his signature was about as valid as a forgery. "Don't I need a lawyer, or something? Dad always told me to read a contract before I sign it."

"Your father already gave his permission," said Alexander, watching him across the lacquered expanse of the table with cold blue eyes. "We're waiting on your signature. It requires two, for minors. The children of some of the scientists here had to do it as well, Grayson. I even had to sign for Alexia."

Grayson stared at the paper. It was all worded very carefully, loaded with legal terms and jargon that he did not understand, in print so small Grayson could barely even read it, and packed into large, text-dense clauses. "I don't know, sir..."

"Grayson, I know you like Alexia," said Alexander, matter-of-factly.

"Sir?"

"Don't be coy, Grayson. I see you making eyes at my daughter, even when you think I'm not looking, or even around." Alexander stood. He was a tall man. His body was tapered: broad in the shoulders, and narrow at the hips. "If you don't sign the contract, I'm afraid I'd have to send you and your father back to Rockfort. And I don't want to do that. I rather enjoy having you here."

Grayson didn't want to go to Rockfort, not without Alexia. He'd rarely see her, if at all; Antarctica seemed long-term. The Ashfords had built a mansion here, which probably meant they didn't plan to go anywhere, and Alexia's job responsibilities mired her in the facility. "All right," he said, even if he hated the idea of signing a binding legal contract without a second pair of eyes to look over it. But Grayson cared too much about Alexia. "Do you have a pen, sir?"

Alexander took a fountain pen from his breast pocket with a flourish, then offered it to Grayson. Grayson took it, hesitating a moment, then scribbling his name on the dotted line. He felt like Faustus, and he'd just signed his contract with the devil. "Excellent," said Alexander, beaming. He took his pen back and tucked it inside his pocket. "Dr. Bingham will be conducting your health-screenings. All routine tests, Grayson. I assure you."

"When should I see Dr. Bingham?" asked Grayson, plaintively.

"Dr. Bingham will retrieve you when he's ready," said Alexander. "He has a long queue, you see."

Grayson left the drawing room, still uneasy. He hoped he'd bought Alexia enough time to pilfer Alexander's office for information on Project Wesker. Part of him wanted to ask Alexander about it, but something told him that Alexander either knew nothing about the project, or would just be angry if Grayson asked. So he left it alone and headed for his room.


	15. Interlude 5: A Theory

Alexia wasn't sure how much longer she had before Alexander returned. She sat at his desk, searching through the piles of papers there, hoping she could find something about her grandfather, or about Martin Wesker's project, and how Bingham related to it. She did not find anything useful; the papers were mostly notes from her father's genetics research, which she had little interest in, bank statements, a politely worded fax, signed Oswell Spencer, which stated Alexander was no longer head of the facility... Alexia abandoned the papers, then turned to her father's computer.

She was prompted for a password and login. Alexia could not use her credentials, because it would only log her into her particular node in the facility network. Alexia checked the drawers (she was thankful Alexander was not as paranoid as her, and had not locked them) because she knew her father wasn't very good with technology, and had probably written his information down somewhere.

She found a little notepad at the bottom of a drawer filled with ballpoint pens and rolls of tape, and could not fathom why anyone would ever need that many pens, or rolls of tape. The login was written on the pad, in Alexander's hasty spider-cursive. Alexia punched it into the computer and waited for the up-link.

 _In_. Alexia used the keys to navigate the neat digital rows of files, but found nothing. She did find a few interesting notes from her father's Code: Veronica project, though it was nothing she had not already known: she was a clone, cloned from Veronica Ashford's DNA, and her mother—now this Alexia did not know—had been some woman from Norfolk, who had been paid quite tidily for her trouble of carrying Alfred and her. _There were others_ , something with a Bingham voice said. _Stillbirths, dead in the surrogate womb_. Alexia shook her head, not wanting to think about how many dead Alexias there might have been, and whether they had come from the same woman, or from different women. _Stop thinking_ , Alexia told herself. She copied the Code: Veronica files to a floppy, so she could look over the data later.

Her search for anything relevant to Project Wesker had led to a series of dead-ends, and she had given up on the computer, wiping any trace of her presence in the node. Then she turned it off, slipping the floppy into the pocket of her lab coat.

There was a dark Colonial bookcase in the room, hovering in her periphery, which, in her current tiredness, had almost seemed man-like, a stranger standing in the shadows. It was stuffed with worn leather-bound books that belonged to her father, and had belonged to her grandfather before him. They were books mostly on virology, genetics, and philosophy. Something gravitated her toward a large anthology of Epicurus' work—a gut-feeling—and Alexia opened it. A thin leather book, which appeared to be an ancient day-planner, fell out and landed in front of the toes of her shoes.

Alexia picked it up and opened it. On the inside of the cover, her grandfather's hand-written name was there in faded black ink. The book, as it turned out, was not a day-planner, but a small journal her grandfather had kept. The pages were somewhat water-damaged, as if someone had dropped it into a puddle at some point in the past, and had let it air-dry.

"Does father even know about this?" she asked nobody, carefully turning the pages with the pads of her fingers. The entries were a catalog of her grandfather's day-to-day, all very carefully written. The story Bingham had told her about her grandfather being a drug-user had not been a lie; there were several entries in which Edward detailed his morphine highs (he also talked of things he referred to as nembies, bennies, goof-balls, and marijuana, which he had referred to as tea) and the people he had gotten high with. Though his more recent entries were less wild, and eventually smoothed out, which had been around the time he had married her grandmother, who had died during the early 1960s from a brain hemorrhage.

The one thing Alexia did notice was that her grandfather had mentioned Marty several times, and she had to go back to some of the earlier entries to find out who Marty was. She found it, in May of 1941 (the last entry was in 1962, when her grandmother had died). Marty was Martin Wesker.

Alexia read a little slower this time. The rumors that her grandfather had liked men hadn't been a lie either. It seemed Edward and Marty had been involved, and they had kept it very hush-hush, and that it had been one of the reasons her grandfather had started to keep a journal: Edward wanted a place to write his secrets, without worrying about her family, or his peers finding out. She wondered if Alexander had ever known, and if Edward had put the journal in this book because he had hoped his son would find it, and would understand someday.

Though the insight into her grandfather's sordid life had been interesting, the journal offered little about Project Wesker, and had never once mentioned Bingham, which Alexia found odd; it was as if Bingham had never actually existed, even though Bingham had claimed he had gone to college with her grandfather. Bingham had even known about her grandfather's drug habit—details which, outside of Great Uncle Stanley and Great Aunt Catherine, even her family had not been aware of.

That got her thinking about what Grayson had said about evil ghosts; but that could not be possible, because the supernatural did not exist. Then an idea struck her: perhaps Bingham had not existed, but had been invented.

Alexia was sure her father would be back at any moment. She took her grandfather's journal, pushing the Epicurus anthology back into its space. She doubted her father would notice, and even if he did, it hardly mattered; Alexia planned to kill him very soon, once she had worked the kinks out of the T-Veronica.

She returned to the mansion and found Grayson inside his room. He was watching Halloween with Alfred. It was the scene where Jamie Lee Curtis' character discovered her friends were dead, and she had to run from Michael Myers.

"She's wrestling with a glass door," said Alfred, around a mouthful of snack-food. "She could punch one of the bloody panes out. So your knuckles get a little bloody. It's better than being stabbed to death."

"There she goes," said Grayson, sipping a can of Coke. "See? She punched one out."

"Took her bloody long enough," said Alfred, shaking his head.

"What I find hilarious," said Grayson, pushing a fistful of popcorn into his mouth, "is the fact she's fucking shrieking _someone, help me_! And nobody in the neighborhood hears this chick, and it's in the middle of the night, no traffic."

"That one lady ignored her when she knocked on the door," said Alfred. "Maybe they don't like her, so they're pretending they don't hear her?"

Alexia cleared her throat. She had listened to their commentary long enough.

"Oh, Alexia," said Alfred, looking at her. "Didn't even hear you come in."

"Oh, hi, Alexia," said Grayson, beaming. "Wanna watch with us? We're gonna put on The Thing next. Figure it's a pretty appropriate send-off for when Alfred goes to bed. You know, since we're in the middle of Antarctica."

"Actually, I want to talk to you, Grayson." She glanced at Alfred, who looked insulted. "Both of you, actually," she added, passing her grandfather's journal to Alfred. "I found this in father's office. The rumors about grandfather were true. He had a relationship with Martin Wesker."

"So Great Uncle Stanley isn't so full of shit," said Alfred conversationally. He opened the book and flipped through the pages—Alexia had to tell him to be careful, the pages were damaged—and Alfred slowed down, turning each page as if they were laced with microscopic explosives. "Drugs?" he said, as if the word was the incantation to some deadly spell. "Grandfather did _drugs_?"

"He's like the Beats," said Grayson, laughing. "Holy shit. That's awesome."

Alexia sat down between Alfred and Grayson, her knees folded underneath her. "He makes a few vague references to Project Wesker, in the 1950s entries. He says that Martin disappeared near the beginning of the project."

"Project Wesker?" said Alfred.

"From what I gleaned, it's a eugenics program Umbrella started," said Alexia, tucking a stray blonde lock behind her ear, which had dangled in her vision, and had made her eye itch. "Bingham had said it was still on-going, or at least had alluded it was still on-going. Said he would continue letting Spencer think Project Wesker was for him, if it meant stable funding."

"And you don't know anything about this program yet?" asked Grayson. He looked at her, and Alexia had this strange urge to kiss him. There was something about his face, in the boyishness of his features, which made her want to kiss him.

"No," she said, and shook her head, deciding against the kiss for Alfred's sake. Alexia wanted to tell Grayson about the little details she'd uncovered about Code: Veronica. She knew Grayson would scarcely be affected by the knowledge, but her brother might go mad from it. She would need to devise a gentler way to tell Alfred about the project. "But I intend to keep digging into the company archives. I haven't exhausted the data. Besides, I have a new theory, after I'd read grandfather's journal."

"What sort of theory?" asked Alfred. He was still reading the book, an intensity in his eyes, like cold fire.

"Bingham is invented," said Alexia. "He never actually existed. It's a false name. He's linked to Project Wesker, I know that much, but I still can't say how exactly. I have a few theories, most of which are rather outlandish."

Grayson raised an eyebrow. "I figured it was made-up," he said. "I mean, what kind of name is Bingham?"

"A strong English one," said Alfred, frowning.

"Also the name of Hiram Bingham III, the man who discovered Machu Picchu," said Alexia, smiling.

"It's still a stupid name," said Grayson.

"So is Grayson, but you don't hear Alexia and I pointing it out." Alfred paused. "Well, until now."

"I think Grayson's name suits him. Gray son. He's like the gray son of the Ashford family."

"Alexia. Please stop," said Alfred, almost pleadingly. "You're supposed to be on my side. I'm your _twin_."

"But Grayson's technically my boyfriend, so the line becomes a little blurred, dear brother."

Alfred cursed under his breath. Then he said, "Boyfriend? When did _that_ happen?"

Alexia watched Grayson, who'd stayed mostly silent, and who had also turned a ferocious shade of red. "Not too long ago, actually," she said.

"Can we get off this subject?" said Grayson, frowning. "So. Project Wesker."

Alfred got up and headed for the door. "This is bloody awkward," he said, and left.

"Finally," said Alexia, rolling her eyes. "He's rather easy to manipulate," she added conversationally, scooting closer to Grayson. Alexia wanted to be near him right now, wanted to tell him about Code: Veronica and how uneasy it made her feel.

Grayson slid her into his lap, which Alexia found surprisingly less awkward than she'd imagined. She was always very comfortable around Grayson. There was a connection there, a symbiosis; she was every bit as co-dependent of him as Grayson was of her. Alexia didn't see him as an ant which lived to serve its Queen, but as someone who was roughly equal to her.

Alexia laced her fingers with his, which were tanned and rough. "I don't really want to go into details, but I do want to talk about it. If that makes any sense. Bingham said I wasn't the only Alexia. That there had been other failures before me."

"You're on about the clone thing again?" asked Grayson.

"It's disturbing, Grayson. How would you feel, knowing you were synthetic? That there had been other yous?" She looked at him. He was listening very closely to her. "Why doesn't this bother you more?" she asked.

"It's a matter of just accepting things, Alexia," said Grayson, and he shrugged, the television catching in his eyes, figures moving in the spaces of his irises. "There's no point trying to explain or ponder everything in logical terms because the world isn't really logical. Besides, it gives you a massive headache when you start shifting from one existential crisis to the next. Think about something else instead. Like kittens."

"I accept I'm a clone. That doesn't change the fact that there were other Alexias, and that's what truly bothers me," she said.

"No different if your dad had actually fucked your mom," he said, in his usual straight-forward way. "You'd be competing with thousands upon thousands of other Alexias or Alfreds too. But you were the one that made it, and that's all that really matters. Not the dead Alexias or the dead Alfreds—"

"I get the point, Grayson," said Alexia, pushing a finger to his lips. "Shut up."

"Stop with that face," said Grayson, digging his thumbs in the corners of her mouth and stretching it into a clownish smile. "There. Better." Alexia swatted his hands away, and Grayson laughed. "You think too much, Alexia. That's your problem. I know it's kinda hard for a brainiac like you to stop thinking, but give it a try. You know what they say about ignorance being bliss."

Alexia wrapped her arms around him and buried her nose in his shirt. "Do you still want to watch The Thing?" she asked. She didn't want to talk about Code: Veronica anymore, not right now. She would think about it later, after she'd reviewed the data on the floppy.


	16. Part Two - Mr Hyde

Bingham showed up at noon, that permanent serial killer smile on his face. Grayson had been in the middle of re-varnishing the balustrade, while his father scrubbed the foyer marble with a cloth, when Bingham approached him.

"Alexander informed me that you signed the paper," said Bingham amiably, nodding in his father's direction: a polite non-verbal _hello_. "I'm here to take you to the medical wing, Grayson. We shouldn't be very long. An hour, perhaps two."

His father stood, wiping the sweat from his forehead on the back of his wrist. "You sure, Dr. Bingham?" he asked. "A lot of stuff to do around the mansion today, and I'm getting too old to be shouldering it all myself."

"You're only forty-five, Scott," said Bingham.

His father seemed confused. Then he asked, "How do you know how old I am?"

Bingham did not answer him. He just smiled in his usual weird way, then turned to Grayson, beckoning him over. "Come along, Grayson," he said, as if he was coaxing out a small shy child.

Grayson wiped the sweat on his face and dropped the cloth into the bucket of varnish on the steps. He wanted to take a shower—his clothes smelled of sweat, and his fingers were brown from the varnish—but Bingham didn't seem interested in waiting. He followed Bingham across the hydroponic yard, where his father's garden had started to bloom, and through the facility, past the laboratories and the employee lounges.

He'd never been to the medical facility before. It was white and sterile-looking, with chrome accents and new fluorescent tubes, and smelled strongly of iodine-tang and human disease. The doors were featureless white-painted fire doors, and the entire place was hospital-silent. They approached a white desk, where a man of ambiguous race sat, dressed in white scrubs embroidered with the company logo. The Umbrella logo, the red-white hexagon, loomed behind the man, a fiberglass shape lit from behind by fluorescent light, the company motto spelled out below it: PRESERVING THE HEALTH OF THE PEOPLE. There was something eerily menacing about the sign, Grayson decided.

"I have a patient coming in," said Bingham, and the man of ambiguous race handed him a clipboard and a pen, and Bingham wrote on the clipboard. "File that away," he added, handing the clipboard, and the man's pen, back to him.

Grayson wondered what Bingham had written, but didn't ask. The man behind the desk buzzed them through an automated door, and turned to his computer, the plastic staccato of keys supplanting the silence. Down another white corridor, where nurses passed like ghosts in their white scrubs, Grayson found himself inside a room. The room appeared to be a laboratory of some kind. A padded op-table in the center, which looked like the tables used in medical examiner offices. There were sinks and sterile cabinets, of the kind he'd seen in Alexia's laboratory, and several strange machines Grayson had never seen before.

Bingham handed him a paper gown and told him to change. He changed. Then Bingham instructed him to lay on the op-slab. Grayson did, but he did not like it; he felt like a corpse being prepped for an autopsy.

Bingham hovered over him, dressed in a lab coat. He switched a light on, and it blared in Grayson's eyes, filled them with white light and made them hurt, like someone was pushing their thumbs against the backs of his eyeballs. "I'm just going to take some scans," said Bingham, in a doctor voice. "Then a little blood. But it won't hurt, I promise. Have you ever given blood, Grayson?"

"No," said Grayson, not really wanting to talk, screwing his eyes against the light. He didn't like the idea of giving blood. His father had given blood once, and had told him the nurse had kept poking his arm because she couldn't find the vein, and that he'd bruised painfully for a week.

"It's not so bad," said Bingham.

Bingham checked his blood pressure, said it was good, then made his rounds on Grayson's body—the usual physical routine. He checked his heart, his lungs, his reflexes, had felt his stomach for any irregularities, and his testicles, which had been the worst part because Bingham was an old man, and his fingers were frigid. He'd done other tests too, ones Grayson figured were exclusive to Umbrella; the company always seemed to be ahead of the technological game, and always, from what Alexia had told him, were adjusting their routines to suit the newer med-tech their R&D lab developed.

Bingham went to a computer across the room. Grayson heard something whirring above him, saw a green horizontal laser-line traveling along his body, then blink out of existence. Bingham said something about scans, but Grayson couldn't quite hear him over the hiss of a faucet. When he came into view again, Bingham held a fat plastic tube in his gloved hand, and he was screwing a hypodermic needle to it. Grayson had never liked needles, and cringed when he saw it. "Don't worry, Grayson. It looks worse than it is," assured Bingham, tying a rubber tourniquet around his arm and prodding him with the pads of his fingers, looking for a vein. "It won't be much longer."

Grayson wanted to keep his mind off of the needle, so he talked. He said, before he'd even realized he had said it, "Bingham isn't your real name." When Grayson saw the look on Bingham's face, he immediately regretted it. Then Bingham smiled.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Grayson." The smile didn't leave his face. He tore a little packet and swabbed Grayson's arm with a damp wipe, then released the safety cap on the needle and stuck him. "Who's putting that nonsense in your head?"

There was an uncomfortable pinch, and a weird sensation of the blood leaving his body, as if sucked through a cold straw. It took a few minutes to draw the blood, and Bingham didn't talk during those minutes. When he finished, Bingham folded a small square of gauze between the thumb and finger of his free hand, pressing it to the puncture. He put the safety cap back on the needle and set the needle down on disposable chuck. The blood looked darker in the tube than Grayson thought it would; it was almost black, crude oil-like.

"That it?" asked Grayson, displacing the awkward tension.

"Indeed," said Bingham, smoothing a strip of medical tape over the bandage. He carefully removed the needle and screwed another tube to the syringe, which looked a bit like a funnel, and attached that to a small plastic cylinder Bingham had called a vacuette tube. "Wasn't so bad now, was it?"

"Guess not," said Grayson, glad the procedure was over. His arm ached a little, but he felt okay. He decided to poke Bingham a little more about what Alexia had told him. "I won't ask why you changed your name, but I'm curious if you know something. You know anything about Martin Wesker, Dr. Bingham?"

Bingham placed the blood-tube into something that vaguely resembled a highly technical refrigerator. When Grayson asked about Martin Wesker, the air around Bingham became almost toxic and oppressive. "How do you know that name?" he asked, and his voice had lost its usual cordiality, and had become cold, flat.

Grayson wished he hadn't asked. But he'd already opened the dialog, and there was no shutting the lid on this Pandora's box. He only hoped Bingham did not want to hurt him. "Alexia found this journal in Alexander's office," he said. "Edward Ashford's journal. It mentioned him. Marty."

Bingham didn't say anything for what had felt like several eternities. His back was turned to Grayson, so he couldn't see his face. "Marty was from a well-to-do family," said Bingham, though his tone remained cool. "He was a close acquaintance of myself and Edward. Brilliant scientist. Nobody knows what happened to him. He disappeared a little over thirty years ago."

"But why?" asked Grayson. He'd wanted to know because Alexia wanted to know; but now, he felt a personal investment in the story of Martin Wesker, though he didn't know why.

"Certain people wanted to steal his research, and succeeded, to a degree. They were envious of his brilliance. And what better way to throw the dogs off your scent than pretend you're dead?" said Bingham.

"Who wanted to steal it?"

Bingham whipped around suddenly and struck Grayson across the jaw with his fist. Grayson tasted blood in his mouth; he'd bitten his tongue. "Did Alexia send you to probe me for information? Or did they? Marcus. Alexander?" Gradually, the rage subsided from his face, and it had been a scary, wild kind of rage, of a man who had a head full of monsters. Then Bingham's expression became Jeffrey Dahmer calm. "Sorry I hit you."

His jaw was numb where Bingham had struck him. Grayson understood then that Bingham was insane, and that he'd made a mistake of signing that paper. Grayson rubbed his jaw, then asked, trying to control the shaky fear in his voice, "Can I go? Please."

"You can go," said Bingham, and he let Grayson go.

Grayson dressed in his clothes, and went away as quickly as possible. Once he'd left the laboratory, Grayson ran down the corridor, sprinting past nurses and doctors. He'd been running so fast that he hadn't even realized where he'd run to, and found himself in the atrium, where pale arctic light filtered through the dome-glass, imbuing the air with a somber quality, a sad back-drop. He took a moment to catch his breath, then headed to the mansion, hoping there was a way he could void the contract and never see Bingham again. The facility was big; he could avoid him, if he could get out of the terms he'd agreed to.

When he arrived at the mansion, Grayson showered, then dressed in fresh clothes, trying to forget his eerie encounter with Dr. Bingham. He'd never seen someone throw their Hyde-switch so quickly. He brushed the blood from his mouth and spat in the sink, prodding experimentally at his jaw, feeling the onset of a deep, painful bruise.

Alfred stood in the hallway, probably on his way to dinner. He was dressed in a black sweater-vest and gray dress pants. The second Alfred saw him, he asked, "What the devil happened to you? Smack yourself in the face with a door, Harman?" He grinned, obviously proud of his joke.

Grayson didn't laugh. He looked at Alfred and said, "Bingham. Guy punched me."

Alfred was no longer smiling. Grayson knew, despite the fact Alfred pretended he didn't care about him, that Alfred did care, in his own strange way. He compared it to the sort of relationship two brothers might share, where the younger brother reveled in making the older brother miserable. "He _punched_ you? With his fist? Just _swung_ at your face without any bloody warning?"

"I asked him about Martin Wesker. He didn't like that," said Grayson. His face was still sore, and there was still a blood-taste in his mouth, mingling unpleasantly with the toothpaste mint. "He's hiding something, Alfred."

"I keep telling Alexia she needs to stop slacking with the resumes and letting the HR people select these reprobates for the job. You know she has a bloody pile of faxes just sitting on her desk, collecting dust?" Alfred shook his head. Then, "She hates interviewing people. She needs to tighten up her bloody screening process, and this shows it. You're all right though? No loose bits?"

"I'm fine," said Grayson. "Besides, I don't think it's entirely up to Alexia who gets to work here. Pretty sure Spencer has the final say, or something. Or the Board."

"Who knows. I don't work for Umbrella," said Alfred, shrugging. They started toward the dining room. "You should tell Alexia about this. Maybe she can do something about Bingham. My sister's sickeningly fond of you, and this will piss her right off."

"I will. But if she doesn't have the final say in this shit, probably not much she can do," said Grayson. "Where is Alexia anyway?"

"She's been down in her laboratory since this morning," said Alfred. "Last I'd checked, she was playing with her stupid ants again."

They entered the dining room. There was a long table of polished Vietnamese rosewood, and a small crystal chandelier above it, which cast a soft yellow glow around the room. Several displays of expensive hand-painted chinaware occupied the spaces along the walls. A marble fireplace with a scrolled mantle stood in the corner of the dining area, a fire burning there behind the ornate art deco fire-screen.

His father had probably already eaten, and had gone to bed. Though his father expected them to adhere to a strict dinner schedule (Grayson was sure it was some kind of disciplinary training because his father was, at heart, a military man, and believed in military man principles) he rarely ever did himself; his father liked to wake up early in the morning, so he was usually asleep by seven o'clock, or eight.

He sat beside Alfred. Whenever they ate dinner, Grayson usually sat between the twins; though Alexia was absent, which had become something of a routine for her since she'd started her term as the facility director.

Grayson cut a piece of his steak—medium rare, with a lot of mushroom sauce—and ate it. He poked at the pilaf, eating only the rice and avoiding the crunchy green onions in it (he had several issues when it came to food texture, and crunchy things made him think he was chewing a mouthful of beetles; and besides, he hated onions).

Alfred watched him, amused. "You're the pickiest eater I've ever met, Harman."

"You know I hate onions. I hate how they taste. I hate their texture. I keep telling dad that, but he keeps putting it in stuff."

Alfred cut a piece of steak, chewed it in the slow, graceful way of someone who'd spent their life perfecting table etiquette. He swallowed, sipped his wine, then said, "You also hate turnips, shrimp, when they aren't de-legged and breaded, whole grain bread, chives, eggplant, squash, stuffing of any kind, carrots, celery—anything that's a vegetable really. You're picky."

"Shrimp's gross when they still got those creepy fucking legs on them. And that line you see when they aren't de-veined? It's their goddamn digestive track. Chives, carrots, and celery have that gross crunchy texture I hate. Squash and eggplants are just mushy and taste weird. And stuffing always has onions and shit in it—at least when dad makes it."

"Yet you eat mushrooms. It's a wonder you haven't starved to death," said Alfred, shaking his head.

"Well. You English eat weird shit. Eels, black pudding, baked beans on your toast. Who puts fucking baked beans on their toast? Alexia eats her toast like that. It's gross."

Alfred laughed. "Don't knock things until you've tried them, Harman." He finished his dinner, then drained the last of his wine, but did not touch his desert, a slice of German chocolate cake; Alfred didn't have much of a sweet-tooth, which Grayson found weird. "I'm going." He clapped Grayson on the shoulders. "Have fun poking at your dinner, Harman. And remember to talk to Alexia about this Bingham thing."

Grayson dragged Alfred's slice of cake over and said, "I'm taking your cake."

"Go ahead. You're going to regret it, however. I know you, Harman. You'll eat that slice, then yours, and probably try to swindle Alexia out of hers. Then your stomach is going to be upset because you're not capable of handling large amounts of chocolate."

"If I'm going to die, I'm going to die by cake," said Grayson, digging into Alfred's slice.

Alfred rolled his eyes and left the room.

It hurt a bit to chew because of the bruise on his face, but Grayson managed. He slowly worked through the desert, chewing on the side of his mouth that did not hurt. The door opened, and at first he thought it was Alfred; but it was Alexia, and she looked beat, and something else—maybe mad. "Hey, Alexia," he said, around a mouthful of cake.

"Grayson. Don't talk with your mouth full," chided Alexia, like an exhausted mother. She sank into the seat on his right and started to eat her dinner, despite the fact that it was pretty much cold by now. "Did I miss Alfred?"

Grayson swallowed his cake and nodded. "Yeah. Just left." He licked at the chocolate on his teeth, so he didn't look as if he had a mouth full of shit. "Why?"

"I need to talk to him." She looked fully at him now. Her expression darkened; Alexia touched the bruise on his jaw with her fingertips, which were cool on his skin. "What's this? Did you and Alfred have an altercation?"

"Would you believe me if I told you it was Bingham?" said Grayson.

Alexia stared at him as if he had told her he'd killed ten people. "Bingham did that? Why were you with Bingham?"

"Your dad had me sign some kind of contract because of a shift in Umbrella's health compliance, or something." Grayson paused, remembering something Alexander had told him. "Didn't Alexander sign for you too?"

Alexia didn't say anything. She looked even angrier, clenching her teeth behind closed lips; he saw the little muscle in her jaw twitch. Then she asked, "Why did Bingham hit you?"

"I asked him about Martin Wesker. He asked me where I heard the name. I told him."

"Did he know anything?" she asked.

"A little. He said Martin Wesker disappeared in the early 1950s. Said he came from a well-to-do family, and that Edward and him were good friends of his. Also mentioned people tried to steal Wesker's research, and slightly succeeded. Then went fucking ape-shit, Alexia. Right from Dr. Jekyll, straight into Mr. Hyde. He whacked me across the jaw, and here I am."

"Did he do anything else?"

Grayson nodded. "Gave me a physical, took scans, and some blood. Part of this whole health compliance deal, I guess."

Alexia pinched the space between her eyes and said, "My night just gets better." She stared at the fire, crescents of flame catching in her eyes. "I'm going to make some calls in my office. Put some ice on that bruise, Grayson."


	17. Interlude 6: Confessions

She spent the next several days trying to get to the bottom of what Bingham was up to, but found nothing. Alexia had even contacted Spencer, and had asked about the health compliance change because nobody had ever mentioned it to her. Spencer had told her it was fine, and had explained, in careful omissions, that there was a change, and that she did not need to worry. When Alexia pressed Spencer for clarity, Spencer hung up. The thought Spencer was colluding against her made Alexia deeply uncomfortable; he had been like a grandfather to her.

Alexia watched numbers cycling on her computer screen. She had been digging for more information on Project Wesker, and had finally broached something useful; the file had been buried deep in the Red Queen network, encrypted with a highly sophisticated security protocol. She had built a crack program from scratch to open it, and had been running the algorithm for three days, while it patiently sifted through the code, working it open with the deftness of a lock-picker's fingers.

"Shouldn't fuck with geniuses," she said to herself. She was alone in her office, excluding the tanks of ants, which, after several experiments, had finally yielded interesting data: she had found a retrovirus in an ant queen. From that retrovirus, Alexia had synthesized a viable sample of the T-Veronica after she'd combined it with the progenitor strain, and planned to test it on Alexander.

Standing up, Alexia paced her office several times. When she came back to her desk, Alexia stared at her phone, and the laminated list of phone extensions taped beside it. She had wondered if Wesker was related to Martin Wesker, and might know something about Project Wesker. A gut-feeling told her no, Wesker did not know anything; he had seemed just as surprised a she had been by Bingham's prototype virus.

She put her _Seventeen Seconds_ album on and sat down at her desk. "The Cure? Never took you for the kind of chick." Grayson appeared, his hands thrust inside the pockets of his jeans. The bruise on his jaw had turned a faded yellow-purple. He had shaved the sides of his head; what was left of his hair was a mess of dark wavy curls, which hung in a forelock over his forehead. "Always thought you liked jazz."

"I'm not allowed to like rock? Besides, I love The Cure. I have all of their albums," she said, smiling. Then Alexia remarked, "I see you changed your hair. Looks a little silly, if you ask me. You bloody look like Martin Gore, Grayson."

"Where I got the idea from. But I'm prettier than Martin Gore. Besides, could be worse. I could have haircut like that guy from Flock of Seagulls." He sat on the edge of her desk, leaning back on his elbows and pushing a few papers to the floor. Grayson craned his neck, so he could look at her computer screen. "What are you doing?" he asked.

Alexia grumbled and picked the papers up, stowing them inside a drawer, where several angry faxes from William Birkin sat ignored under notepads and disposable pens. "If you styled your hair like Mike Score, I'd shave your entire head." Alexia smacked Grayson's hand away, when he had started to play with the objects on her desk. Then she said, "I found something on Project Wesker, I think. It was buried _deep_ in the Red Queen network. Very encrypted. Someone didn't want anyone to find it. I'm trying to crack it open."

Grayson balanced a pen on his nose, and Alexia could not help but sigh. She was certain Grayson was incapable of any measure of seriousness for longer than a few minutes; it was as if he had to mentally hibernate, at frequent intervals, to recoup whatever energy he'd expended to be serious. "Are you even listening to me?" she asked.

"Project Wesker. File encryption. Nobody wanted you to find it," he said, and jumped off her desk, heading into the laboratory annex.

Alexia followed him, before he accidentally damaged her research. Grayson was studying the ant terrariums, tapping the glass with his finger like an annoying child at a zoo who wanted to coax a reaction from the exhibit. The ants scattered, scurrying over one another in a panic. "Grayson, stop that. You're upsetting the ants."

"They're ants, Alexia. Ants don't have feelings," he said, but he did stop messing with her tanks. Grayson looked at her. "Is this for your T-Veronica research? Let me see your arms."

"My arms? Grayson, really."

"Let me see them," he repeated.

She showed him her arms.

"Good. No needles," said Grayson, bobbing his head approvingly.

"I've been experimenting on the ants, Grayson. Not myself," she said, frowning. She would not test the virus on herself until she was sure of it; it was still in its conception, and Alexia wasn't stupid enough to self-test an unstable prototype.

"What have you been doing with the ants? They look kinda weird."

"Infecting them with a strain of a retrovirus I found inside an ant queen," she explained, keeping the terms layman. "I combined it with the progenitor strain, which my grandfather, Spencer, and Marcus found inside the Stairway of the Sun, that flower mentioned in those files, the one worshiped by the Ndipaya."

"Okay. So what does that do to the ants?" asked Grayson, staring at her.

"In short, the ants respond to my manipulation. I can control them. To a degree. I'm still smoothing out the details." Alexia shook her head. Then said, "But with the work I've been doing with Bingham's prototype, it's proven slow-going."

"You're still helping that asshole?" said Grayson, frowning.

"Spencer wants me to. I can't say no. He's my boss," said Alexia. Though she would never admit it to Grayson, Alexia helped Bingham out of selfishness. Bingham's virus could prove lucrative to her T-Veronica research, and subsequently lucrative to her career. There might even be a way to perfect the T-Veronica, to the point she could eschew the need for mutation; though such a possibility was still years away. There were too many hurdles and kinks right now, and several technological limitations. She had done the calculations, concluding the necessary technology for that stage in her research would not be available until 2007.

"I guess I get it," said Grayson, though Alexia could tell from his tone that he wasn't at all happy about it. He watched the tanks, his arms folded across his chest. "You know, I have to go see Bingham again. That's what Alexander told me. I can't get out of it."

"I'm doing everything in my power to remove you from the situation," she assured him, touching his shoulder in a gesture of comfort. "Lord Spencer has been stonewalling me. And the Board won't take my calls."

Grayson held her hand. His hand was large, and his palm and fingers were calloused. "What would I do without you, Alexia?" he said, smiling. He shook his head and leaned back against her work table. "I sound like a wuss."

"You don't sound like a wuss at all, Grayson," said Alexia.

"I came down here because I'm scared," said Grayson, as if he was admitting some terrible sin. "It wasn't the fact that Bingham hit me that scared me. I can take a punch; my old man's knocked me around a few times for bad shit I did. It was Bingham's face, Alexia. Jesus." For the first time, Alexia saw real fear on Grayson's face, and it hurt her. He had not even looked that scared when he'd been attacked by the zombie in the Spencer estate.

"If there's anything I can do, Grayson, tell me." She rubbed his back, resting her head on his shoulder, watching a queen ant sluggishly pushing through a cluster of workers.

Grayson shook his head. "I just wanna hang out with you right now, if that's okay."

Alexia had a huge work-load, but she could not say no. And she knew that if she had been sad and scared, Grayson would not have told her no either. "Would you like to go for a walk?" she asked. "I need to get out of this office for a bit anyway."

"What about your computer program?" he asked, looking at her.

"It's not done cycling. And it will be there when I come back," she said, and smiled.

They walked around the enormous ant hive. The nuptial flights would begin soon, and the nest's population would expand. She had infected the ants with T-Veronica and wanted to observe the effects it would have over several generations, and whether or not the effects would dilute, or, through adaption, evolve into more potent and advantageous traits. But this was not the time to think about work, even if it was hard for her not to think about work.

Grayson tugged her hair. It had annoyed her when they were younger, but Alexia did not mind it now; it had evolved into a show of affection. They walked in relative silence, occasionally making small-talk, which never lasted very long because neither of them enjoyed small-talk. They could go several hours without saying much, when there was nothing worth saying. Alexia supposed that was one of many things she liked about Grayson; he did not talk much, unless they were talking about movies, and understood, and did not care, that she did not like to talk much either.

She wished walking was a more interesting affair in the Antarctica facility. Alexia missed trees and plants, and the sun, which she could only see inside the atrium. Alexia decided to talk; something had been bothering her, and she wanted to tell Grayson. "I accessed my father's computer, the day you spoke with him. I found data on Code: Veronica and copied it to a floppy."

"What did you find out?" asked Grayson.

"Nothing. I haven't even looked at it. To be honest, I'm a little scared to." Alexia hated to admit she was scared of anything, but it was the truth. She was afraid of what she would find on that floppy. There was a reason ignorance was bliss, and why idiots were the happiest people in the world.

"Alexia." Grayson stepped in front of her. He looked uncharacteristically serious. "I told you," he said, and his tone was just as serious. "Who cares if you're a clone? You afraid of finding out there were other yous?"

"Yes." Alexia could trust Grayson, and decided to confide in him; it had been the first time she had confided anything intimate to anybody but Alfred. "I'm also afraid to find out what my father's true feelings about us are. Was there ever a time he actually loved us? Or has he always considered us his projects? Something to parade around the company like a couple of side-show freaks because his ego needed soothing." Alexia felt a pang of emotion in her chest, a heat in her eyes. She wanted to cry, but did not want to cry in front of Grayson because she never cried in front of anyone, not even Alfred or Scott.

"Shit. Alexia. Don't cry," said Grayson. "I'm shit at comforting people."

She said, automatically, "I want to kill father."

"So would I. Especially after he put me into this shit with Bingham."

"No," said Alexia, looking at him. "I want to _kill_ him, Grayson. Alfred and I have been planning it for months." Alexia was not sure how Grayson would take the confession. Part of her worried she would scare him away, and that he'd want nothing to do with her anymore; the other part assured her it would be fine, because Alexander had wronged him too.

Grayson did not look at her strangely. He did not even seem frightened of the prospect that she planned to murder her father. There was an understanding in his eyes. "Look," he said, squeezing her shoulders reassuringly. "I get it. I do. But murder's a huge deal, Alexia. Maybe you should look at the floppy before you call your final verdict? You might be surprised by what you find."

"Perhaps you're right," she admitted. Alexia stared at the ground, studying the little cracks and pockmarks in the concrete. Then, "You're not scared?"

He laughed. "No. I don't like your dad, and I wouldn't be sad to see him go," he said. "I'm just telling you this for your sake, Alexia. Like I said, murder's a huge deal. Changes people."

"You sound as if you're talking from experience," said Alexia.

"This kid. It was that summer I stayed with my aunt in Atlantic City, when I was thirteen. This kid, he picked on me. I never understood why. He'd follow me around my aunt's neighborhood, calling me names, shoving me around. One night, kid jumps me outside my aunt's apartment building with some of his friends. Steals my shoes. They were new Nikes, the ones you bought me for my birthday that year. So I started looking around for the asshole. Found out he hung at this video arcade, two blocks away from my aunt's place. I waited until closing, followed him, made sure his goons weren't around. The kid was wearing my shoes. So I knifed him, Alexia. With a switchblade I got off a buddy of mine. He tried to call for help. I told him to shut up, and stabbed him in the throat. I listened to him choke on his own fucking blood, Alexia. I stabbed the fucker until he stopped moving. I was so fucking pissed off at this guy."

Alexia had never known this about Grayson. It explained why he'd not been very scared when he had seen the zombie. It also did not bother her that he had blood on his hands; she had a fair share on hers, but in more indirect ways—Umbrella kept their scientists supplied with a steady stream of human specimens. "The police never did anything?" she asked.

"They came around and taped off the scene, when someone found the kid's body in the alley. Did the whole crime-scene routine. Kid was a well-known thug, so nobody really cared that he'd died. Still, the cops went around taking statements, hustling for witnesses. Nobody knew anything. Nobody ever knows anything in neighborhoods like my aunt's, because they don't trust the cops. I guess the case went cold. And I was gone not too long after the whole incident, and back on Rockfort."

"Besides, if it came down to it, we would have paid some very expensive lawyers to represent you in court," said Alexia. Umbrella had some of the world's best legal teams on their roster, and her family was very wealthy, and could have easily paid off the right people while Umbrella's lawyers did the rest of the work.

"I'll keep that in mind," said Grayson. "You know. I never told anyone that. For obvious reasons."

"You needn't worry about me tattling on you, Grayson," she said, grinning. "Your secret is safe."


	18. Interlude 7: Closer

Alexia went to speak with Bingham. If she could not go through Spencer, perhaps Alexia could coerce Bingham into releasing Grayson from the contract, though sincerely doubted it would work. But she had run out of options between Spencer's constant stonewalling, and the Board's immutable silence. She approached the female nurse at the desk, who said, "Good evening, Director Ashford," and buzzed her through the door. "Dr. Bingham is in the testing room."

Alexia said thank you, and went to the testing room. The testing room was a large concrete space which looked half morgue, half shooting range, and had the acoustics of an empty theater. There were cameras rigged at different points in the room to create a panoramic view for observational posterity; she had used a similar setup in her own research.

Bingham had a gun pointed at a naked man, who was chained to a wall stained with dark spots. The chained man was infected; his skin was a pale corpse color, and his eyes were bright orange, pupils thin vertical slits. He snarled and gnashed his teeth, and occasionally spoke words: _fuck you_ , _asshole_ , _psycho_. And then the words would degrade into unintelligent beast noises. Blooms of congealed blood peppered his skin, as if he had been shot several times in the chest, the legs, and the arms; though there were no visible holes.

"Oh, Director. So nice to see you," said Bingham cheerily, firing another bullet at the chained man. The bullet tore through the man's chest, where his heart was, but he did not die. The man became more agitated, writhing against the wall and shaking his chains. "Meet Quincy James. Diagnosed with terminal brain cancer. He opted in for Umbrella's experimental treatment program. Unfortunately, the virus did not take perfectly."

Alexia stared at Quincy James. She was not fazed by the sight; she had seen worse things. "What are you doing to him?" she asked, conversationally.

"Testing his pain threshold, and his rate of regeneration." Bingham fired the gun again, and the round ripped through Quincy's stomach, blood splattering the wall behind him. Alexia watched the wound slowly stitch itself back up. "The virus still isn't quite where I want it," added Bingham. "But thanks to your brilliant input, distinct progress has been made, Director. Decomposition is much slower now, and the host retains partial sentience."

"I'm still working on it," said Alexia, pushing her hands inside the pockets of her lab coat. She had been somewhat lax in her work with Bingham. She had been too busy with the T-Veronica, and trying to free Grayson from the shackles of his medical contract. "I want to speak with you about Grayson, Dr. Bingham. Among other things."

"I told you. I don't know what happened to Martin Wesker," said Bingham, looking at her. He ejected the clip from his gun and loaded a new one, then fired another round at Quincy, who half-screamed and rattled his chains. "As for Grayson, I already apologized. I lost my temper, Director. It was wrong. I've very painful memories from the time I had known Martin Wesker, and young Grayson struck an unpleasant chord."

Alexia knew his apology was superficial, and that superficiality pissed her off. He had hurt Grayson. "What are you planning to do with Grayson?" she asked, hands tensing inside her pockets. "You expect me to believe your tests are simple routines? Dr. Bingham—whatever your real name is—I may be thirteen, but I'm not nearly as stupid as you seem to think I am. Remember what you'd said at the Spencer estate? That I'm not someone to fuck with? I'm not."

"I have nothing nefarious planned for young Grayson, Director." Bingham shot Quincy again, this time in the head, and Quincy died, his brains pollocking the wall behind him. "Still need to work on that," he remarked, unchaining Quincy's body from the wall. He zipped Quincy into a plastic body bag, which was decaled with a bio-hazard symbol, and piled him with other black plastic bags in the corner of the room.

"I think you're bullshitting me, Dr. Bingham," said Alexia.

"A show of good faith then?" Bingham turned to her and smiled emptily, his old handsome face haunted-looking and colorless in the fluorescent light of the room. "Martin Wesker was involved with your grandfather, in the intimate sense. Edward seduced him so he could steal his research—and Edward did. Though he only managed to take a small fraction of Wesker's research, before Wesker disappeared some thirty or so years ago. But it had been enough to cement Edward's reputation of 'scientific brilliance' among his peers, and to lay the foundation for the Umbrella Corporation."

Alexia wanted to believe Bingham was lying, but could not deny the earnestness in his face. "My grandfather stole Wesker's research?"

Bingham nodded. "Which is why I hardly care that you want to kill Alexander. The Ashfords—and please, don't be too offended by the truth, Director—are only where they are today because of what Edward stole from Martin Wesker. This company is where it is _because_ of that research. Though the onus does not solely reside on the shoulders of your family. Spencer and Marcus are every bit as guilty as Edward, because they failed to give credit where credit was due."

"Do you think, perhaps, that Dr. Wesker was assassinated by his competitors?" she suggested. Alexia never cared very much for her family's legacy, not to the extent her brother or father did, so the truth of the Ashford's success did not shake her. The only person who mattered in the family, besides Alfred, was Veronica, and Veronica had already been dead for two centuries.

"Possible," said Bingham, bobbing his head. He peeled off his latex gloves and threw them into a plastic trash bin marked BIO-HAZARD, in bold black letters. "The truth is, Marty simply vanished after Edward betrayed him." Bingham shrugged. "Any number of things could have happened, Director. Marty did leave behind a wife and a son, though I don't know where to find them. For all I know, Umbrella could have killed them."

Alexia would not doubt that. Umbrella often eliminated loose-ends, especially when they presented a threat to the company's security, and continued success. The family could have known something—perhaps something Martin Wesker had told them—and that would have earned them a visit from a clean-up detail. "I see. There is something else that has bothered me incessantly, Dr. Bingham. Your name. Why did you change it?"

"We all have our reasons for doing the things we do," said Bingham, storing the gun he had been using back inside a gun locker. "I can tell you _why_ I picked it. You know the name Hiram Bingham III, yes?" Alexia said she did, and Bingham smiled. "He discovered Machu Picchu, as you know. He discovered something big. Something that rewrote history. Just as I will one day, when I unlock the full potential of my prototype virus."

Alexia returned to her laboratory. The crack program had finally gouged the encryption, and now the contents of the data-file unfolded on her screen in bright green lattices. She was excited, and a little scared; she wanted Grayson to be here. She took her phone off its cradle and punched the unlisted extension for the mansion. Scott answered.

"Scott? This is Alexia," said Alexia, untangling the phone cord because she was nervous, and it provided something for her hands to do.

"Hey, princess." The pet-name made Alexia smile in the sheer dadness of it. "What can I do for you? Want some tea? I'll bring some down; just got a new tin of Darjeeling loose-leaf from London. Dinner's not done yet, however. I'm making chicken cordon bleu with that creamy white wine sauce you like."

"I'll be sure to be on time tonight," she said, still smiling. "But no, that's not why I called. Is Grayson busy?"

She could hear the grin in Scott's voice. "Busy? No. I let Romeo off his chores early tonight since it's Friday." Scott laughed, and Alexia blushed because she knew precisely why Scott had laughed. "He's hanging out with Alfred somewhere. I'm guessing you want me to send him down, huh, Juliet?"

"That won't be a problem, I hope," said Alexia, her cheeks still hot.

"I can hear the embarrassment in your voice, doll. Relax. It's nothing to be ashamed of. I'll send him down, soon as I find him. Dinner should be done in two hours, so make sure you're here." Scott hung up.

Alexia put the phone back on its cradle, exhaling a breath she had not been aware she'd been holding. She wouldn't read the file contents until Grayson was here, and went into the annex to check on her ants. An hour passed, and Alexia heard the door open. Grayson came inside, dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, carrying a tray of tea and shortbread. "Dad told me to bring this down anyway." He grinned and set the tray down on the end table by the door. "He just made the shortbread this morning. It's good. Old family recipe, from when my family came over from England. Least that's what dad says. So what's up?"

Alexia picked up one of the cookies and bit it. It was surprisingly good, and there was something else in it; though she could not pinpoint the flavor. "Your family came from England?" she asked. "What part?"

"It was a long time ago, Alexia," said Grayson, laughing. "Came over at the turn of the century. I think they were from Kent. Pretty sure that's what dad said. Mom's side I don't know much about—she died when I was still a baby—but dad says her parents were from Derbyshire. But enough about the family history. Call me down here because you missed me?" He smirked.

She smiled and sipped her tea, sitting down at her desk. "I did miss you, but that's not why I called you down." Alexia set the cup of tea on her desk. "The crack program broke the encryption. I can see what's in the Code: Veronica file. But I wanted you here for it."

"Have no fear, your moral support is here," said Grayson, and bent over the backrest of her chair, his chin on his arms. He was watching the computer screen, the text emerald-glittering in his eyes. "Go ahead. Let's have a look."


	19. Part Two - Alexander

Grayson watched Alexia systematically go through each file, her expression starting neutral then slowly coasting into hurt sadness, and finally into silent anger, of the kind which was hard to pick up on if you did not know what subtleties to look for. He had quietly read each file over her shoulder, and understood why Alexia was pissed.

The earliest files had detailed a slew of failed experiments throughout the 1960s—failed Alexias who had died in the wombs of their surrogates because their genetics had been overly fucked by Alexander's curiosity; though each child had had a different name: Veronica, Eleanor, Lydia, Ellen, Catherine, and it had not been until 1970 that Alexander had seemed to settle on the name Alexia, after he had read a book about Alexander the Great. Each entry read like an organized sociopath's diary; Alexander had never actually cared about the twins, and had been clear about his feelings in the logs. He had referred to Alexia as a necessary parasite, and Alfred as a faulty by-product of genetic unpredictability.

The only thing that concerned Alexander was the Ashford name, and how Alexia could restore the family's reputation, and his own. Seeing Alexander's logs in the Code: Veronica file, Grayson hated the man even more; he was congenitally selfish, an intense egoist who was languishing in his father's shadow, who blamed a curse for the Ashford family's slow nose-dive into obscurity and rags. The only curse, Grayson thought, was Alexander's ineptitude, and his inability to admit that he was the epicenter of the shit.

The worst of it had been the final file. It had been hidden in a sub-encryption, and was a fairly recent entry—dated 1981—and detailed plans for a countermeasure against Alexia. Alexia, the log said, was too precocious, that her ambition posed a threat to herself and others. She would outgrow herself soon, Alexander said, and would need to be dealt with. There were some vague references to something called LINEAR; though Grayson could not begin to guess what LINEAR might have stood for, and supposed it was probably a code-name for a secret project.

When she had finished reading, Alexia turned off the computer and ejected the floppy, and did not say a word. She stared at the floppy, pinched between her thumb and finger, and threw it across her office like a shuriken. "He never cared, Grayson," she said, rage-trembling. "A necessary parasite? That I'm too smart, so he wants me dead. Wasn't that why he made me in the first place? Because he needed my intelligence? So why..."

"I don't understand it either, Alexia," said Grayson. He hugged her. "And I got no answers for you. I'm sorry."

She hugged back and cried. Alexia did not cry because she was sad, he decided, but because she was angry, frustrated, and confused, and her body did not know how to handle all of those emotions at once, so it had purged, in the form of a nervous breakdown.

"I'll help you kill him," said Grayson suddenly, surprising himself because he'd been so quick to say it, even eager. "He might not let you get close enough to do any real damage if he's so fucking paranoid you're gonna flip shit that he had to develop a fatal countermeasure to stop you. I can slip something in his tea. Knife him. Whatever you want, Alexia."

Though her eyes were still pink and wet, and her face was cry-flushed, Alexia had managed to compose herself. She said, "I want him to serve as an experiment for my T-Veronica research." There was an eeriness in her voice which made Grayson think of gray skies speckled with crows. "Poison, or a knife to the back, would be too kind for him."

"How are we gonna trick him into being a guinea pig for your research?" he asked.

"A sedative-paralytic we use on our human specimens," she said. "It's a liquid. Colorless. Odorless. Usually, we intravenously administer it. But if we slip it into Alexander's evening tea? It will immobilize him."

Grayson nodded. He had never liked Alexander, and after what he'd read in the logs, he wanted him dead. "All right. Are we doing this tonight?" he asked.

"Yes," said Alexia. "We're doing it tonight." She looked at the kettle on the tray Grayson had brought. "I have a plan."

Alexia retrieved the drug they needed from the facility's reserves, and nobody had questioned her because she was the boss, clear access to everything. Grayson could not pronounce the name on the little bottle; it was one of those long pharmaceutical names he often saw on prescription bottles, or the ingredient labels of over-the-counter meds. He dumped the contents into the kettle, while Alexia called Alfred.

Her plan was to have Alfred keep his father distracted, and call Alexander down to her office. Alexander had taken a keen interest in Alexia's T-Veronica research; though after Grayson had seen the logs, he was sure Alexander's interest had probably stemmed from a paranoid sense of self-preservation—to ensure she was not, in fact, being too ambitious, and was still firmly under his control.

Alfred had agreed to the plan, and had said he would meet them down in her office once Alexia said it was okay. Then Alexia called Alexander, who had seemed more than happy to have the opportunity to look over her work. Grayson guessed it appealed to his narcissism; Alexander could not possibly pass up the opportunity to grace Alexia with his brilliant scientific insight, and possibly upstage her by finding and correcting the fatal flaw in her experiment.

Within thirty minutes, Alexander stood inside her office, dressed in a black suit, which Grayson found fitting. "You said you've made some headway in your research, love?" He could hear the hollowness in the pet name now, as if Alexander was repeating something he had heard in a movie once.

"I have," said Alexia, smiling. She stood, then gestured at the tea spread. "Why don't you have some tea, father, and I'll show you."

Alexander poured himself a tea, commenting approvingly on the shortbread. It was his constant bedtime routine: every night, at precisely 9 o'clock, Alexander had a tea because he could not sleep without it, though Grayson was pretty sure it was more or less a by-product of compulsion, and it was his failure to commit the compulsion that kept him awake. "Ah. I've been meaning to ask, Grayson. How are things with Dr. Bingham?"

"They're great," he lied, leaning against Alexia's desk. "Routine stuff. Just like you said, sir."

Alexander bobbed his head a few times, then sipped the tea. Grayson waited. It did not take long for the drug to hit his bloodstream; Alexander hit the floor like a toppled tree, and did not move, as if he was a corpse in the beginnings of rigor mortis. He had not even finished his tea; the cup shattered, and the steaming contents spilled across the floorboards.

Alexia picked up her phone and dialed the mansion extension. Then she said, "Alfred? Come down here. Bring a bag with you."

The bag Alfred had brought was a body-bag, which he had retrieved from one of the labs after he'd convinced the technicians it was an errand for the Director. Alfred enjoyed a certain degree of mobility within the facility, Grayson realized; he was the Director's twin, and maintained certain privileges over the rank-and-file.

Alfred placed the bag down. Alexia had told him everything she had read about the Code: Veronica project over the phone, but in a way that had not disturbed Alfred's precarious mental equilibrium. "Harman, get his ankles and I'll get his arms. Help me move him into the bag."

"He's not dead. Why are we putting him in a body-bag?" asked Grayson, getting Alexander around the ankles and helping Alfred move the body. Alexander was not a muscular man, but he was tall.

"Do you really think we'll be able to move Alexander's body in front of the other researchers, without drawing unwanted attention?" Alfred shook his head. They had gotten Alexander inside the bag, and Alfred zipped it up. "In the bag, he just looks like another specimen that's being moved."

"But a couple of kids just carrying a body-bag isn't weird?" said Grayson.

" _We're_ not going to carry him," said Alexia, and she took the phone off its cradle, punching an extension. Then she said, with telemarketer professionalism, "This is Director Ashford. I need a specimen moved to the test labs."

Apparently, it was pretty normal in Umbrella to randomly move bodies through the facility; though Grayson was not surprised, given the few ambiguous things Alfred had told him about the company's shadier side. Within a few minutes, some guys from Umbrella Security, both dressed in hazmat gear, showed up, and they did not ask a single question about the bag, or why it was inside Alexia's laboratory annex, as if they had dealt with similar circumstances before. They took Alexander away, and were gone as quietly as phantoms.

"People really don't question you around this place. Do they, Alexia?"

"No, Grayson. They don't," she said, and grinned. Alexia looked at Alfred. "Ready for a little revenge, Alfred?"

"Nobody calls me a by-product of genetic unpredictability. So yes, I am," said Alfred, moving toward the door.

"Want me to come along?" asked Grayson, looking between the twins.

"No," said Alfred, and he left.

"This is a personal matter, Grayson," said Alexia, touching Grayson's hand. "You understand, I'm sure."

Grayson did. He held her hand and smiled, nodding. "Sure. I'll be back at the mansion."

Alexia smiled back, then kissed him and left the room.

Grayson spent the evening in his room. Around midnight, there was a knock at the door, and Alexia stood there, the lapels of her lab coat flecked with blood. She seemed different now, as if killing Alexander had metamorphosed her into a creature of dull stone. Grayson let her in and closed the door behind her. "It's over?"

Alexia nodded. "It is."

"Do you feel better now?"

"I do," she said, though he could tell she did not entirely mean that. It was not shame or guilt Grayson had sensed, but an acute disappointment. "The virus didn't work." Alexia frowned. Then, "A failure even in death, Grayson. It seems my father was destined to always be useless."

"Is that what the blood's from?" he asked, pointing at the red dots on her coat.

Alexia shook her head and said, "Alfred got a little sadistic." She looked at him. "I don't know what I'm doing wrong with the virus, Grayson. This isn't me. I don't fail."

"We all fuck up. Even you, Alexia," said Grayson, and sat on his bed, where his battered copy of _Junky_ lay on the geometric bedspread. "I think you need to stop being such a fucking perfectionist." He grinned. Then, "Any reason you came to visit?" He did not actually need a reason for her visit; Grayson liked when Alexia randomly dropped by his room.

"Do you mind if I sleep here tonight, Grayson?" she asked. Alexia looked mentally exhausted, hollow.

"Like in my bed?"

She nodded.

The last time he'd slept in the same room as Alexia had been when he was seven. When they were younger, they often had sleep-overs in each other's rooms. It had been innocent little kid stuff; but it was different now. They were in a relationship, and though Grayson did not want to jump the gun, he was sure he loved her. But he was confident he could keep his hands to himself. Grayson respected Alexia too much to use the proximity for his own selfish carnality. "Sure," he said, and smiled. "You can sleep here."

Alexia beamed and took off her lab coat, hanging it on the door-hooks. She removed her shoes and set them aside, and her black cardigan, then lay in the bed. "You'll keep your hands to yourself, I hope," she said.

"Promise," he said, and meant it.

She pulled his arm over her and said, "But this is fine."

"You know if dad finds you like this, he's gonna castrate me," said Grayson. "So's Alfred."

"They'll never know. I promise." Alexia reached for the button on his reading lamp and killed the light.

Grayson settled in. He had never shared a bed with a girl before, not like this, and it was weird and awkward in the newness of it all; though he did not hate it. "What happened to Alexander anyway?" he asked, his voice cutting through the bedtime-quiet of his room.

"Don't worry about it, Grayson," said Alexia. She said nothing. Then, "You were right."

"About?"

"Killing someone does change you."

"You're not upset about it, are you?"

"No. I just feel different," said Alexia.


	20. Interlude 8: The Virus

Grayson was gone when she woke, the indent where he'd slept cold. Alexia worried she'd pushed herself a little too hard on him. But wouldn't Grayson have said something if that had been the case? She put it from her mind and slipped her cardigan on, then her shoes, in total darkness. Then turned the light on and fixed her hair and clothes, and left the room.

She wiped the sleep from her eyes and waited for them to adjust to the lights in the hallway. Alexia wondered what time it was, and whether or not she should check on Alexander. He was not quite dead yet, but he might as well have been; the T-Veronica was slowly mutating his body, erasing whatever vestiges of Alexander that remained, cell by cell.

Scott was dusting the shelves in the hallway. He had removed her biology compendiums and was wiping down the shelf with a cloth. When he saw her, Scott smiled with bright Hollywood teeth. "About time you woke up, sweetheart," he said. "I was about to drag you out of bed myself. Not like you to sleep this late."

"What time is it?" Alexia had not looked at a clock since last night. She was not even sure when she had fallen asleep. She was sure it had been later than midnight, but before three o'clock in the morning; Grayson and her had talked quite a lot last night, and they'd watched _Raiders of the Lost Ark_ because he had been trying to cheer her up. "Have you seen Grayson, Scott?"

Scott scratched his head. She was glad he did not seem any wiser about Alexander. "Yeah. This morning. He went to Bingham for that check-up thing. Should have been back by now, though. It's noon." He shook his head.

"He went to Bingham?" Alexia was careful to manicure her tone; she did not want Scott to worry, because she liked Scott.

Scott nodded. "Yeah. Bingham showed up at the mansion at the ass-crack of dawn. He seemed to be in a really good mood." He shrugged, then laughed. "Maybe he got lucky?" Scott paused. "I mean—pretend you didn't hear that, princess. That was real inappropriate of me. Sometimes I forget you're thirteen."

"I know what sex is, Scott. I went to university, if you'll recall." Alexia did not show it, but she worried about Grayson. Bingham had taken a recent profound interest in him, ever since Grayson had gone for his initial rounds of testing.

"Of course. How could I forget? Proudest day of my life, seeing my girl up there," said Scott, and he chuckled. Then, "You hungry? Alfred's having lunch, if you want to join him. I made some salmon chowder."

"Thank you, Scott," said Alexia, and smiled. She kissed him on the cheek, then went to find Alfred.

Alfred was in the dining room, tucking into his soup and bread. When he saw her, Alfred grinned. "Last night was rather exhilarating. Don't you think, Alexia?" The Ink Spots crooned _It's a Sin to Tell a Lie_ on the record player in the corner of the room. "I've never seen a grown man shriek like that." Alfred laughed, then spooned a chunk of salmon into his mouth.

"I'm not here to talk about Alexander, brother. Have you seen Grayson? Scott mentioned he'd gone to Bingham."

Alfred dabbed at his mouth with a linen napkin, then neatly folded it into quarters and placed it beside his bowl. Alexia never understood her brother's preoccupation with dining etiquette, which Alfred treated like fine art. "He did indeed," he said. "He seemed nervous. I suppose he's still a little shaken from being struck by Dr. Bingham, the disgusting brute. Do you suppose we could experiment on him too?" Since they had killed Alexander, Alfred had changed, demonstrating a sadist's lack of empathy. Alexia had always known of Alfred's predilection for violence, but Alfred had always been careful not to broadcast it; though he no longer seemed to care if people noticed now. It was as if hurting Alexander had been some sort of rite for him, an affirmation of his secret character.

"Bingham? Perhaps someday. But right now, he serves a purpose," said Alexia. That purpose was her research. Studying Bingham's prototype virus had unlocked new potentials for T-Veronica; given time, she could ensure T-Veronica would not fail again, but thrive. "Do you know if Grayson is still down there with Bingham?" she asked.

"Probably. Couldn't say," said Alfred, finishing his chowder. He set the empty bowl aside, so Scott would clear it later, and stood, brushing a piece of lint from the rigid white collar of his shirt. "I'm surprised you're still here. Usually you're preoccupied with your work, down in that dingy lab of yours. Bored of your disgusting little ant friends already?" Alfred smirked.

"Decided I would take the weekend off." It had not been her original plan—Alexia rarely ever took off because it was valuable time wasted, and time was a finite commodity—but she had not gotten out of bed until noon, and now Grayson was off with Bingham, and she worried about him, and would not be able to concentrate on her work because she worried about him. Alexia had had a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach ever since Grayson had mentioned the contract.

"You all right, Alexia? You look a little nauseous," said Alfred.

"I'm fine, Alfred," she lied, and left the dining room.

Alexia was halfway to Bingham's laboratory when she saw Grayson coming her way. He looked nauseous and tired, and did not even notice her until she had grabbed his hand and said, "Grayson?" She did not like how pale Grayson was; he looked sick, in the throes of a particularly bad cold sweat. "God. Grayson, what happened?"

"Bingham injected me. Said I would feel woozy for a little bit," he said, and he showed her his arm, where a small gauze-patch had been taped. "Said it shouldn't last longer than a few hours. I'm fine, Alexia. I'm okay."

"You're not okay." Alexia did not like the symptoms Grayson exhibited; they were similar to the first-stage symptoms of a host who had been infected with the T-Virus. Though she was sure it wasn't the T-Virus; there were no signs of necrosis, no lesions, no vomiting blood or swollen veins. Bingham had infected him with his prototype, she was almost sure of it. "Grayson, I'm taking you back to the mansion, and I'm going to keep an eye on you. Okay?"

Grayson said okay, because he knew she would not take no for an answer.

Alexia took Grayson to his room and helped him into bed. She dragged the chair over from his writing desk and sat beside the bed, observing. She felt sick and angry; sick, because she worried the virus would not take and that Grayson would die, and angry because Bingham had used Alexander to trick Grayson into signing himself over to Umbrella.

If Grayson stood on the precipice of mutation, there was nothing Alexia could do for him. And the thought she might lose him made Alexia want to vomit. He was her best friend, and Alexia was positive she loved him. It was strange, she thought, how much she wanted to say, but somehow could not say anything.

Alfred entered the bedroom, depositing a small bottle of pills in her hand, and a glass of water in the other. "I retrieved the medicine from your laboratory, Alexia. To help with his fever."

"Thank you, Alfred," she said, and unscrewed the cap. Alexia was glad that Alfred was observant and, despite the indifference he often effected toward him, was fond of Grayson. "Grayson. I need you to take one of these." She tipped a small pink octagon into her hand. Grayson took the pill and washed it down with the water, then lay back in the bed, complaining about the bitterness of the medicine, and how his stomach felt as if it was harboring hostile alien life. Alexia laughed at the joke, and knew that had been the point.

"Should I inform Scott about Grayson?" asked Alfred.

Alexia shook her head. Then said, in Alfred's ear, "Don't say a word. I don't want Scott doing something stupid. You know how hot-headed he gets. I'll handle this, Alfred."

Alfred nodded. "All right. I'll come back to check on you both later. If you need a break, dear sister, do let me know. I'll take up the watch." He smiled and left, shutting the door behind him.

"Alfred likes me," said Grayson, grinning like an idiot.

"Of course he likes you. I like you. And Alfred likes what I like." Alexia frowned. Then, "What happened down in Bingham's precisely? Did he just give you a shot?"

"He said they found something in my blood, and that I needed a shot to sort it out," said Grayson. He was staring at the ceiling, and looked pale and uncomfortable. "He didn't really go into details. Said I'd be fine after a few hours. Did a few other tests on me. Scans, more blood-work. Maybe I'm dying from cancer or something, and Bingham's just not telling me."

"You're not dying from cancer, Grayson. You're not dying at all," said Alexia, taking his hand and squeezing. His grip was weak, and his hand was clammy.

"But if I do die from cancer, make sure my funeral's a damn good one," he said. "Don't skimp."

" _Grayson_ ," she said, more seriously than she had intended; it had almost sounded angry, and Alexia supposed she was angry, because he did not quite grasp the seriousness of his circumstances.

"Sorry," he said, frowning. "Just trying to lighten things up."

A few hours passed—Alexia wasn't sure how many hours, but was sure it had been significant—and Grayson slept, put under by the sickness, and by the medicine she had given him. He seemed to have gotten over the worst of his condition, and showed no signs of mutation. His fever had gone down, and a bit of color had bled back into his cheeks. While Grayson slept, Alexia thought about what she would do about Bingham. It was important she got in touch with the Board, because Alexia could not do anything to Bingham until she had gone to the Board.

Alexia needed a sample of the strain, and though she hated the very idea of it, she needed to speak with Birkin and Wesker about it. Perhaps Bingham had conferred with them, and if he had not, they could perhaps help her unravel the intricacies of the prototype's viral make-up. Birkin was the second most intelligent scientist in Umbrella, and Wesker, though not as brilliant as Birkin or her, might have some valuable insight; after all, they had been studying the strain since she'd left the Spencer estate, and may have learned something new.

She decided to take a new sample from Grayson. Quietly, Alexia left the room and returned with a phlebotomy kit from her laboratory. She washed her hands in Grayson's tiny bathroom, then put on a pair of disposable latex gloves and peeled the sterile plastic from the syringe and needle. It was not hard for her to find his vein; she sanitized the skin and stuck him, drawing a few milliliters of blood. Once she had enough, Alexia pushed a gauze against the puncture to staunch the bleeding, taped it, and deposited the blood into a vacuette tube. She disposed of the kit in a plastic bio-hazard bag she had brought with her, which, along with her gloves, she threw out in her laboratory, and stored the blood sample in her cooler.

When she returned to his bedroom, Grayson was still fast asleep. Alexia was thankful the pill he'd taken was potent; she did not want to scare him by asking for more blood, after what Bingham had put him through. He would probably notice the bandage on his arm, but Alexia would worry about that later.

Alexia went to her mansion office, which was down the hall. She rarely ever used the room; it was not a laboratory, and was more or less a place she wrote letters, on the rare occasions that she needed to write letters. There were bookcases in here, and a single desk at the far end of the room layered with stationary and notebooks. She picked the phone up and dialed Birkin's Arklay extension.

"Birkin. This is Alexia Ashford," said Alexia.

Birkin did not sound happy to hear from her. "What the fuck do you want, Ashford?" He also sounded tired; she had probably woken him up, or perhaps he had not slept yet because he was riding another rush of caffeine and drug stimulants. "I'm busy. Unlike you, I have important research to be doing."

"Yes, yes. Your G-Virus, or whatever," said Alexia, rolling her eyes. "I actually need your hel—he—"

Birkin started laughing. Alexia blushed. Then he said, "Oh my God, you want my help? The girl genius wants _my_ help?" The laughing did not stop; in fact, it got louder. "Oh my fucking God, this is great. Jesus, I wish I could fucking record this—man, where is Albert when you need him. Yo—" Birkin was talking to someone else now—"Albert! Check this out: Alexia Ashford needs my help. Little Miss Fucking Perfect can't do something on her own."

Alexia could hear Wesker talking somewhere in the background. He sounded as if he was standing a few feet from the phone. Her entire face became hot. "Alexia needs your help?" said Wesker. "Well, isn't that amusing. Still, you should stop being such a jackass about it, William. She is our colleague."

"I don't get why you like her so much, Albert," said William, as if the idea of someone liking her was deeply offensive to him on a personal level. Then, to her, "Sure, Ashford. I'd be stupid to pass up an opportunity to make you look like a moron. Especially in James Marcus' lab."

Alexia did her best to ignore Birkin and focus on the reason she'd called him. "I have a blood sample," she said. "My butler Grayson Harman's been infected with the prototype. It's an improved strain, Birkin. You've both been studying the virus; I think this arrangement could be beneficial for all of us. You learn something, I learn something. Everyone is bloody happy."

Birkin suddenly got very serious. "An improved strain?" he said. She could tell she had piqued his interest; Alexia was sure Birkin wanted the sample for his G-Virus project. "Why your butler? Of all people."

"It's a long story," said Alexia. "The short of it? He was coerced into signing a contract. There is no health compliance change, is there?"

"Health compliance hasn't changed since '80, Ashford. Year you became official. So nope, he was definitely tricked. Gotta hand it to those guys who draw up the contracts. Really under-handed stuff. It's impressive."

"Do you know what's going on with Lord Spencer and the Board?" It was a shot in the dark, but Alexia thought Birkin might know something; he had been with the company slightly longer than her, and seemed to know people through James Marcus. "Lord Spencer hasn't been answering my calls, and the Board has been stonewalling me."

"Board's busy handling a legal crisis in Europe. You haven't heard? Well, don't worry about it. It's not important, and Umbrella's gonna walk anyway. As for Lord Spencer, no idea. I could maybe ask Marcus, though I doubt he'll tell me shit."

"You're being unusually helpful, Birkin," said Alexia.

"Don't get me wrong, Ashford. I hate your guts, and I'd love to see your ass get fired. But you have something I want, and I have something you want. It's business, a transaction. Hey, maybe let us look at your butler?"

"You're not experimenting on him, Birkin. No."

"Well, I tried."

"Good-bye, Birkin. I'll see you in a few days." Alexia hung up. She really did not like William Birkin.


	21. Part Two - Back in Arklay

A few days later, they were on a flight bound for Raccoon. Grayson did not feel sick anymore, and Alexia seemed less worried about him now, which made him happy. He was not dying; Alexia had told him he had shown serious improvement, and something about his immune system, and then something else—interspersed with long scientific terms—about blood cells and cells, and other microscopic biological mysteries that only a scientist could understand. He felt great, better than he ever had before, and that was enough for him.

They landed in Raccoon in the evening. It was only Alexia and him this time. Alfred had decided to stay in Antarctica, and so had his father. Not that Grayson minded; any time he could be alone with Alexia was a good time, because it meant he did not have to keep looking over his shoulder for his father, or for Alfred, whenever he wanted to hug or kiss her. They even held hands as they walked the sparkling granite concourse and emerged in the warm Midwestern spring. Raccoon looked a lot different in the spring, more alive: there were apple blossoms planted outside the airport terminal, and several manicured beds of jonquils and colorful tulips, and the city skyline was a loud, bright neon constellation against the smoky dark sky. Even the people seemed more alive; in early February, the crowds had come and gone like ghosts, but now they lingered along the terminal in laughing groups, hailing cabs and rides from excited family members, clinking change into the vending machines, eating snacks they had brought in their luggage...

Two men passed and Grayson heard one say, "Warmest spring we've had in goddang years," and the other man said, "Yeah, no kiddin'," and then they hailed a cab and were gone. Grayson liked the liveliness. Antarctica was too quiet, a concrete world inhabited by socially awkward researchers who treated conversation with the uncertainty of a doctor treating some unknown terminal brain disease.

"How are we getting back to the Spencer estate?" asked Grayson, watching cabs and cars pull in, load up with people and luggage, then drive away. He was not excited to return to the Spencer estate; but Alexia had assured him there would not be a repeat of the junky incident.

"Umbrella is sending us a driver," said Alexia. "Perks of company vehicles." She was still holding his hand, and Grayson liked that Alexia did not seem to care if people saw them. He heard three old women behind them comment how cute it was, in varying degrees, and my, what they wouldn't give to be that young again.

Grayson involuntarily smiled. Then said, "People are looking at us, you know."

"So?" said Alexia, glancing at the old women behind her. One of them waved at her, and she awkwardly waved back. Alexia had never been very good with pleasantries, and the gesture came off as standoffish. The older woman who Alexia had waved at said she must be shy, but goodness, she was such a pretty little girl.

The driver pulled up—Grayson knew it was their ride, because of the huge Umbrella logo on the passenger door—and they piled their bags into the trunk. The driver was a young guy named Mike, who looked a bit like Daryl Hall, and who had moved to Raccoon after things had fallen through with his girlfriend in Nevada. Grayson liked Mike, though Alexia seemed indifferent to him; but she was indifferent to everyone she did not know.

They drove down congested city roads (though they came to a dead-stop several times because it was the late rush hour right now) and passed shops, artisan delis, and local bars in Raccoon's trendier districts, where students from Raccoon U seemed to be gathering for weekend fun. Grayson sat beside Alexia in the backseat. _Beat It_ played on the radio, and Mike cranked the volume up, after he had asked Alexia if it was okay.

As they drove past Game Palace, Grayson thought of Mark and wondered what had happened to him, or his friend with the snaggletooth and Members Only jacket. When he asked Alexia, she told him it had been taken care of, and that he should forget about it.

They took the exit out of the city, and were traveling down the highway. Mike took a different route than Grayson's father had, through unfamiliar towns (though all of the towns here were unfamiliar to him, except for Wolf Creek) and down lonely wooded back-roads, which were eerie in the streetlightless nighttime.

"So you're Alexia Ashford?" asked Mike, his blue eyes caged in the mirror. Headlights illuminated dense forest and old tarmac. Rain splattered on the windshield, and was promptly wiped away.

Alexia looked at Mike. "You know who I am?"

"Everyone's heard about you in the company," said Mike. "Even us lowly drivers. Not every day you hear about a thirteen-year-old scientist." He paused. "You probably hear that a lot, don't you?"

"I do," said Alexia coolly.

"Sorry. Meant nothing by it," said Mike. Something by Hall and Oates played on the radio now. Grayson was pretty sure it was Maneater, though it was hard to tell over the _woof-woof_ of the wipers, and because Mike had turned the volume down so low. "I just started driving for Umbrella," he added. "You know, to pay for college. You're the first prominent scientist I've brought up to the old Spencer place."

Alexia was probably bored—Grayson knew she hated long car rides, and she could not read in the dark—so she talked to Mike. "How long have you been with the Umbrella Corporation?" she asked.

"Just a month," said Mike. He looked at Grayson in the mirror. "How'd you meet Dr. Ashford, Grayson?"

Grayson had only been paying partial attention to their conversation. When Mike spoke to him, he was jolted from his daydream, and it took him a moment to process the question. "Oh, uh. My dad, he's the Ashford family's butler," said Grayson. "Alexia and I grew up together."

Mike nodded. "One other question, Dr. Ashford? And it's okay if you don't want to answer."

"What is it?" said Alexia.

"How the heck did you get a doctorates by ten?"

Alexia smiled. "As you're well aware, I'm sure, I'm a prodigy," she said, with cool confidence. "Rather than waste time with traditional schooling, I was expedited by Mensa through a series of very long, very difficult tests. I passed them, and was able to circumvent the classroom entirely. Simply put, I did in one test what most people spend an entire school-year doing. I only attended a handful of actual university classes because I wanted to, not because I had to."

Around ten o'clock, they arrived at the Spencer estate. Now that there was no party, the place looked as if it had been abandoned for years, completely forgotten by the urban world. There were no lights in the windows. It was silent too, except for the pattering of the rain, and the gentle roiling of spring thunder.

Mike gathered their bags from the trunk, and Alexia told him to be careful with hers, there were important things inside it. When she had gone ahead of them, Mike said to Grayson, "You're together, aren't you?"

Grayson took his bags so Mike would not have to juggle them to the door, and grinned. "Yeah. Is it that obvious?"

"Plain as day," said Mike, beaming. "You're a lucky guy, Grayson. She's way too young for me, but man, when she hits her twenties? Watch out."

"Watch out for you, or watch out for her?" said Grayson, laughing.

"Both," said Mike, and he laughed too. Normally, that sort of thing would have pissed off Grayson, but he knew Mike had meant nothing by it, and would not actually try to steal Alexia away someday. They were just two guys, talking about guy things. "She have an older sister, maybe?"

"Sorry to break it to you, man. Just has a twin brother," said Grayson.

"Dang," said Mike, setting the bags down in the foyer. He thrust his hand at Grayson. "Was nice meeting you, Grayson."

Grayson shook Mike's hand, then handed him a twenty. "Alexia told me to tip you," he said, and grinned. "Nice meeting you too, Mike. Careful out there."

Mike grinned, then went. The foyer was strange, almost alien, in its emptiness. It was a vast marble space where even the smallest sound echoed, resonating in the air for several seconds. The lights were turned down low, and cast a creepy orange incandescence on the place. Alexia spooked him from behind and said, "I have an older sister? That I should watch out when I'm in my twenties?" She grabbed his hands, and Grayson could hear the smirk in her voice. "You don't talk nearly as quietly as you think you do, Grayson."

Grayson turned around. "Shit. You heard that," he said, blushing.

"What is it with boys and this incessant need to comment on every attractive female they see?" She rolled her eyes. "You don't hear me talking to other girls about your looks."

"He wasn't really commenting on you. But more so the you ten years from now," said Grayson. Then he frowned, somewhat hurt. "You don't talk about me to other girls?"

"I don't have any friends. Remember?" Alexia kissed him.

There were footsteps somewhere on their left, and a man started laughing. "Aw, isn't this cute. Did I just piss on the moment, Ashford?" William Birkin stood at the foot of the stairwell. His lab coat and clothes were rumpled, and so was his hair, and it made him look like a cartoon character who had just stuck their finger in an electrical socket. It also looked as if Birkin had not shaved for the last couple of days; there was an accumulation of insomniac-stubble on his acned face. "Get a load of these two, Albert."

Wesker, in stark contrast to Birkin, looked freshly showered and well-rested. His clothes were laundered and neat. And for whatever reason, still wore dark sunglasses. Grayson started to think that the sunglasses were not an accessory for Wesker, but a bodily extension. "I hope the ride here wasn't too bad," said Wesker. He handed a plastic card to Alexia. "It's a temporary Ecliptic Express pass for Grayson. Much easier than having to drive, and you can come and go from the mansion as you please."

"Thank you, Albert," said Alexia, and she handed the card to Grayson.

Grayson looked at it. The Umbrella logo was watermarked on his photo—Grayson guessed Umbrella had pulled the photo from their data-bank—and the word TEMP was printed below it. He slipped it inside the back pocket of his jeans and said, "Thanks, Dr. Wesker. Appreciate it."

"No trouble, Grayson. I'll show you both to your rooms," said Wesker, and he started up the stairs.

"Albert. What about the _sample_?" said Birkin, looking annoyed. Grayson had no idea what Birkin was talking about, but assumed it was more weird Umbrella business. He had learned not to really poke around the company's various goings-on. "We could go down to the lab right now and—"

"It's late, Birkin. I'm tired, and I'm sure Alexia and Grayson are tired too," said Wesker, in a way that made Grayson think of an irritated father who was trying to calm his screaming toddler. "The sample isn't going anywhere. I'll bring it down to the labs once I settle these two in."

Their rooms were not the same rooms they had occupied the night they had been snowed-in. Grayson also did not see any of Spencer's servants, or even Spencer himself. "Where's Spencer at, Dr. Wesker?"

"Spencer doesn't live here. Think of the mansion as luxury apartments for the Arklay researchers," said Wesker, letting Grayson into his room and handing him the little iron room-key. "Spencer's actual home is in Europe somewhere, though nobody knows the location."

The room was big, and full of antique chestnut furniture. There was a large diamond-paned bay window that overlooked the graveyard, where Grayson had seen the men moving the body. Grayson set his bag down by the bed and started to unpack. "Oh," he said, folding his clothes and stowing them inside his dresser. "Got it."

"If you need me for anything, Grayson, my room is the last one down the hall," said Alexia, and she went away with Wesker.

Around midnight, Grayson dressed in sweatpants and a T-shirt and went to Alexia's room. He did not actually want to sleep in his own room; he liked sleeping beside Alexia, and besides, the Spencer estate still creeped him out. He felt as if he was constantly being watched by ghosts, and though he did not entirely believe in the supernatural—Grayson had never actually had any weird supernatural encounters to convince him of the occult's existence—he did not entirely dismiss the idea, especially in a house as old as Spencer's.

Grayson knocked on the door. He knew Alexia wasn't asleep; he could see a light on, in the crack between the door and the floorboards, and heard piano music. Footsteps, then the pins of the lock clicked open. Alexia opened the door and said, "Grayson? I told you, there won't be a repeat of the junky incident. You can sleep soundly."

"I helped you kill Alexander. I'm not worried about junkies," said Grayson, making his way inside. "I just wanna sleep in here." He was partially telling the truth; he was not scared of the junkies, but scared of the possibility of ghosts, which, unlike junkies, could not be fought through conventional means.

"Oh my God. Are you actually scared of this house?" Alexia giggled and shut the door behind him, locking it. She wore cotton shorts, and a plain white T-shirt. "You're such a baby. It's hilarious. Our house on Rockfort is older than this place, and you'd slept just fine there."

"It was smaller, and I grew up there," said Grayson, frowning.

"Ghosts aren't real, Grayson," said Alexia, sipping a cup of tea she had on her desk. She sat down. The desk sat by a large bay window, but unlike the bay window in his room, Alexia had a nice view of the woods. Rain splattered against the glass. Soft piano notes drifted from the old record-player near her desk, filling the room.

"What are you listening to?" he asked.

"Beethoven," she said. Alexia was writing something, her back toward him.

"What are you doing?"

"Equations. I'm trying to repair an error in the T-Veronica."

Grayson would not ask her about the equations. He did not understand that stuff, and Alexia would often go into long, complicated tangents whenever he asked. She was convinced she could teach him how to do complex mathematics. He called it Professor Higgins Syndrome, and he was the Eliza Doolittle she was supposed to teach. "So I was thinking," he said. "Think we could find some time to go to Raccoon, between whatever it is you're doing with Birkin and Wesker? It's been months since I've been in a city."

"I don't see why not," said Alexia, still writing. She erased something, then wiped the rubber shavings from her desk.

"How long are we gonna be here anyway?" asked Grayson, sitting on her bed.

"How long?" Alexia paused. Then, "Probably a month, or so. Alexander's taken care of, and Bingham can't reach you here. I already informed Scott and Alfred. My brother wasn't very happy about it, but he'll be fine. Scott was all right with it, on the condition we phoned every week." She laughed quietly. "Scott's a worrier. It's actually nice. Having a father who cares."

"Don't say it like that, Alexia. Makes our relationship awkward," said Grayson, shaking his head. He fluffed the pillows, then lay down on his side, tucking his hands under his arms. "Is the Antarctica facility going to be okay without you?"

"The people there are scientists, Grayson. Not children who need a babysitter. They'll be fine." Alexia finished writing, then lay beside him. "Besides, I have my brother seeing to the administrative work. Might as well get some use out of Alfred. He isn't much of a scientist, but he has a head for delegation."

"True enough," he agreed. He turned toward her, raising himself on his elbow. "Are we here because of Bingham? Should I be worried?"

Alexia pecked his lips and said, "No. You're absolutely fine."


	22. Interlude 9: Hot Heads

Alexia helped herself to the coffee—it was that disgusting instant stuff she hated, which came in the tin cans, and had that horrible chemical aftertaste and consistency of cheap coffee which had sat too long in the percolator—and made her way down to the Arklay labs. She wore her lab coat, her Umbrella ID pinned to the breast pocket because Alexia was sick and tired of people questioning whether or not she actually worked for Umbrella.

The Arklay laboratory showed its age in the worn concrete halls. Directions—levels, names of certain wards, go this or that way to reach such-and-such—were painted in flaking yellow acrylic on the walls. A few of the scientists who passed her had recognized her (Alexia wondered if there were rumors flying around the company about her) and made small-talk, or asked her opinion on certain projects. She was usually curt with them; she did not like to talk, especially at seven o'clock in the morning, with people she would probably never see or work with again.

There was a pervasive smell of dank in the place from a broken water-line. The plumbing, she noticed, was old; they were still using cast iron pipes. Alexia guessed this part of the facility was older than the part Wesker had shown her, when she had first learned about Bingham's virus. The concrete was stained and wet, and most of the paint on the walls had flaked away. There were rusting metal doors down here too, which resembled the kind of doors that belonged in an asylum for the violent and insane.

She heard noises down here: a woman's painful moaning, and the rattling of heavy chains. Alexia found herself more curious than scared.

"That's Lisa," said a voice behind her, and Alexia jumped, spilling hot coffee on her hand. She cursed and shook the liquid from her fingers. "Sorry." Wesker smiled mechanically and passed her a paper napkin. "I always keep napkins on me. I'm rather clumsy. Prone to spills. Apologies, I didn't mean to scare you, Alexia."

"Who's Lisa?" she asked, wiping her hand, crumpling the napkin and throwing it at Wesker's chest. It harmlessly bounced off.

Wesker didn't answer. "The lab is in the newer wing," he said, and he guided her in the opposite direction. "Come on, I'll show you."

They walked in relative silence, though Wesker would occasionally say hello to the researchers who walked past. He seemed popular with his peers; most of them referred to him as Albert, and a woman named Andrea asked if he still wanted to go this great bar she knew, because they were having a little surprise party for Gary's birthday... Wesker said he would try and make it in that polite roundabout way of saying no, and they walked on.

"I've been meaning to ask, Albert," said Alexia. They were in the newer wing now; the concrete was fresher, and so was the paint, and the lights were brand-new fluorescent tubes. "Is there any possible way you could give me access to Arklay's personnel records?"

"Whatever do you need that for, Alexia? Trying to dig up dirt on William?"

Alexia scoffed. "As if I would sink to such childish lows. No. I'm looking for information on Bingham."

"You too?" said Wesker, amused.

"You're looking as well?"

Wesker nodded. "The man is a ghost. But I can give you access."

She did not want to ask Wesker about Martin Wesker, but decided it could not hurt. "Have you come across anything regarding a Martin Wesker?"

He smiled, though it seemed to be a smile for himself. "I did. I thought we were related, perhaps. I looked into it. Sadly, we're not. Probably a coincidence." Wesker looked at her, pushing his hands inside the pockets of his lab coat. "There isn't much on record, though it's possible I might have missed something. I know Martin Wesker was involved with the Africa Expedition. He disappeared in the 1950s, and then the trail goes cold. Though there was one interesting little detail I found in an old folder, in the text of several typewritten pages—authored by none other than your grandfather."

"That he stole Wesker's research?" she said.

"Actually, no. But that _is_ interesting," said Wesker, rubbing his chin, the fluorescent light flowing across his sunglasses. "The pages resembled the beginnings of a memoir, or something. Edward mentioned Martin Wesker. Marty—as Edward so affectionately referred to him—was involved with a woman named Olivia Harman."

Alexia stopped walking. "What?" she said.

"That's your butler's surname, isn't it? I saw their files. Scott Harman, Grayson Harman. See what I'm getting at now, Alexia?"

"Martin Wesker is Grayson's grandfather," said Alexia, understanding. She could not believe it; Grayson was so normal, but Martin Wesker was this nebulous mythological figure whose brilliance had laid the ground for the Umbrella Corporation. It was hard to believe that they were related; it was like hearing one of those Greek stories about Zeus impregnating some hapless mortal woman.

"Small world, isn't it?"

"Would you mind sending those files to my room?" she asked. "I'd like to review them tonight."

"Of course, Alexia. I'll bring them up before I go to bed." Wesker paused. "Here we are," he said, and the automatic door opened after he'd scanned his fingerprint on the terminal mounted beside it. Birkin was inside, peering into a microscope. A woman Alexia had never seen before stood beside him. Her hair was very pale and limp, which gave her an almost wilted look, as if she had just recovered from a recent nervous break-down. "Ah, Annette. How's your first day going? I hope William's proven more agreeable to you than the last assistant they sent."

"Everything is just fine, Dr. Wesker. William's been nothing but kind." Annette had an airy quality to her voice which annoyed Alexia; it was like the woman had taken a few tranquilizers before she had shown up to work. When she saw her, Annette said, "Oh my goodness, you must be Alexia Ashford."

"Yes," said Alexia, shouldering past Annette and retrieving the print-outs for the prototype's break-down. She wanted to tell Grayson about Martin Wesker, but something told her that would not be a good idea.

"It's an honor to meet you, Dr. Ashford," said Annette, and she almost sounded eager, even thrilled. "I read your treatise on beneficial synthetic mutagens for my dissertation. I can't believe you wrote that when you were nine."

"Eight," Alexia corrected. She looked over the print-outs. The data was different than the work she had done in her own lab. The improved prototype was not as erratic as the original strain; this strain was more controlled.

"Annette, stop staring at Ashford." Birkin grinned. Then he said, "I hear if you look at her too long, you'll catch fire."

"I'm just—I—I'm in the presence of one of Umbrella's greatest—"

Birkin cut her off. "Mind getting me the other sample over there? The one Wesker and I extrapolated from Harman's blood sample." He looked annoyed, and Alexia knew it was because she had a fan-club, and he did not.

"Don't look so glum, chum," said Alexia, patting Birkin on the shoulder. Birkin recoiled and said if she ever touched him again, he would break her fingers. She laughed. Then the mood sobered, and Annette brought over the petri dish containing the extrapolated sample. Alexia pushed Birkin away from the microscope and looked at it. "Parasites," she said.

"Artificial parasites," said Wesker, standing beside her. He pointed at the microscope. "Notice that the white blood cells fail to attack the 'infection'. Grayson's body doesn't even realize it's been infected, Alexia. We introduced some foreign debris into the blood sample—and before you scream at me about contamination protocol, hear me out—we found something interesting. The parasites latched onto the white blood cells and immediately attacked the foreign debris. Eradicated it in seconds flat. This new strain you and Bingham have developed? It's bolstered Grayson's immune system to something absolutely supernatural."

"You should let us run some fucking tests on the kid," said Birkin, rolling up his sleeves. He went to his desk and sipped his coffee; there was no steam, so it was probably cold. "We can't really do much with just some blood, Ashford. We need to get _in there_ , if you catch my meaning."

"Are you suggesting we dissect a child, William?" asked Annette.

"If it answers my questions? Yes."

Alexia shook her head. "Touch one hair on Grayson's head, Birkin, and I'll have _your_ head for a puppet."

"You heard her, William," said Wesker, smirking.

"Ashford, fucking come on," said Birkin, gesticulating wildly. "We're on the precipice of something truly fucking astounding. But you're dragging progress by insisting we leave your little boyfriend alone."

"Grayson is _not_ part of Umbrella," said Alexia, her tone ice-cold. When it came to Grayson, Alexia was very protective, and she would kill herself before seeing him on an op-slab like some Area 51 experiment. "I'll not have him experimented on so you can fulfill your selfish pretext, Birkin," she added, heatedly. "I know you're only interested in the data because of your fucking G-Virus research."

"At least I have viable research!" said Birkin, just as angrily. He slapped the work-table, and made Annette jump from his sudden loudness. "From what I hear, you play with fucking ants all day, in the hope of creating some world anthill, or some shit. Are you so fucking delusional, Ashford? So fucking insecure and angry at the world that you need a little throne to sit on to make yourself feel better, because daddy didn't love you?" Then he shouted, "Glory to the Ashford _fucking_ family," and he swept the print-outs and folders from the work-table, scattering them on the floor.

"At least I _have_ a pedigree! _I'm_ the one everyone is looking at now," said Alexia, louder than she had intended. Then stopped caring about propriety altogether and started shouting like a savage. " _I'm_ the one everyone—including Lord Spencer himself—expects great things from! And what do you have, you filthy, pathetic man? _Nothing_. Absolutely fucking _nothing_. You're a man clutching his hopes like a poor man clutching his last couple of dollars. You know I outshine you, Birkin—and you hate that. You know I will continue to outshine you—and you hate that. I'm descended from one of the original founders of the Umbrella Corporation. I have mobility you will _never_ have, no matter how many hours, tears, and drops of blood and sweat you pour into your pointless fucking research here— _and you hate that_!"

Birkin went to hit her, but Wesker had grabbed his arm before he could. He said, "Enough. She's only thirteen, William." Then, to her, "Alexia. We'll resume our work once you've both cooled off. Go find Grayson. Have a nice dinner in Raccoon. But don't come back into this laboratory until you've settled down and rediscovered your professionalism."

Annette looked between them, confused. She also looked somewhat frightened, like a small animal pinned in the headlights of an eighteen-wheeler; it was clear she had not expected a shouting match, and it had spooked her. "I'm just going to process the data," she muttered, inching away from the group.

Alexia did not argue. She left and took the Ecliptic Express into Raccoon.

It was raining, a gray miserable day. Alexia glanced at the vintage Rolex on her wrist, which Alexander had bought for her tenth birthday, and wondered where Grayson could be. She had no way of reaching him, but was sure she knew where he'd gone. She walked the city blocks to Game Palace and saw Grayson inside, playing Spy Hunter.

Grayson did not seem to notice her. He seemed to be doing well; he had attracted a small group of younger kids, and two who looked around his age, who watched and remarked how good he was at the game. Alexia joined the group, and a few of the boys gave her strange looks. Grayson grinned, said, "Here, take the wheel," and he let one of the younger kids take over the game; though they were not as good as he was apparently, and had crashed the car. "How'd work go?"

"Work?" said one of the older boys, a red-haired teenager with light brown freckles, who wore jeans and a sleeveless gray shirt. He fished a quarter from his pocket and handed it to the young boy playing on the machine. Alexia was sure they were brothers; they looked alike.

"Yep. Alexia's a scientist," said Grayson. When the boys laughed, he said, to the older red-haired kid, "No, I'm serious, Clarence. She works for Umbrella. Show him your ID, Alexia. Come on."

Alexia did not care enough to show her ID, but Grayson kept prodding her. She sighed and took it out, showing it to the boy named Clarence. "Holy shit," said Clarence. "She really is a scientist. What's she doing hanging out with a dumbass like you?" He grinned at Grayson, who grinned back and said, "No idea. Jealous?" Alexia did not understand male camaraderie; they kept insulting each other and laughing about it. But it was good, she decided, that Grayson had made some friends; he wasn't a creature of introversion like she was.

"She's also my girlfriend," said Grayson, with a proud smile. Alexia smiled; she liked that Grayson was so open about it. And it occurred to her that that had been the first time she had actually heard Grayson say it aloud.

"No fucking way," said Clarence. He looked at her, then asked, "How'd he talk you into that deal? Did he bribe you?"

"No. Proximity did it, and personal history." It was strange, Alexia thought. She had never actually interacted with kids before, outside of Grayson and Alfred; her life had almost entirely consisted of adults. Idly, Alexia wondered how different her life would have been if she had been born as prosaic as Clarence. Would she have cared about social gatherings like this? Would she have cared about proms and homecomings, and had looked forward to her first car, like every teenager...

"We grew up together," Grayson elaborated, still beaming. He threw his arm across her shoulders.

"She's really pretty," said Clarence's younger brother, and he grinned. He still had his baby teeth, and his front tooth was missing. He could not have been older than six. "What's your name?"

"Alexia," she said, feeling awkward. She did not know how to interact with kids her age, let alone a small child.

"Why do you have a funny voice, Alexia?"

"It's not funny. I'm English," she said.

"Don't you mean British?"

"No. I meant English," said Alexia.

"Does my voice sound weird to you, Alexia?"

"All Americans sound the same to me. Unless they're southern."

Clarence was laughing. His younger brother said, "Well, you're super pretty."

Grayson playfully pushed the young boy's head back. He said, "Hey now. Stop trying to steal my girlfriend, Sean."

"I won't," said Sean, smiling. Clarence gave Sean another quarter, and he returned to dying several times on Spy Hunter, the approximated sound of pixelated explosions, and the thrumming of Peter Gunn music, erupting from the game speakers.

They left Game Palace. "Seems you've made some friends," she said.

"Clarence is cool," said Grayson, and he bobbed his head. He looked at her. "You look like you've had a rough day. Something happen at work?"

Alexia wanted to tell Grayson that Martin Wesker was his grandfather. But she could not tell him, even though she wanted to; it would involve him even more in Umbrella, and Alexia did not want that. It could also draw unwanted attention; Grayson was not a quiet, or a very cautious, boy. "Birkin and I got into it," she said. "Proper screaming match. Albert quite literally kicked me out of the laboratory and told me not to come back until I'd calmed down."


	23. Part Two - A Breath of Air

They ate at a fancy Italian place—Grayson supposed it wasn't actually fancy, but it was nice, and definitely more expensive than the diners he had frequented in New Jersey, when he'd visited his aunt—and talked, mostly about nothing. Alexia looked as if she had something very important to say, but whenever he asked, she would tell him it was nothing, and eventually Grayson had given up altogether.

He had ordered some kind of pasta dish (he could not read Italian, but had recognized the word marinara) and Alexia had gotten tortellini soup with sausage, spinach, and other gross vegetables he would never eat. Grayson picked the onions and tomato chunks out of his marinara, forking them onto the edge of his plate. "I hope you got some good insults in on Birkin," he said, conversationally.

The muted noise of polite conversation filled the room, and the tinkling of glassware. They were sitting by a window, which looked out onto the street, where a steady flow of people passed, huddled under their umbrellas in the watery blue daylight.

Alexia sipped her water. "I did." She paused, watching him. "Do you have to pick _everything_ out like that, Grayson? Might as well not have ordered anything."

"You know I hate onions and tomato chunks," he said, defensively.

"Yes, I'm aware. You essentially hate all vegetables. Though you should really change that. You need more variety in your bloody diet, Grayson."

"You're not my mom," he said, frowning. Grayson twirled the pasta around his fork, and ate. He nearly spewed, because a crunchy bit of onion had gotten into his noodles.

"Don't you _dare_ ," warned Alexia, giving him the mean eye.

Grayson forced himself to swallow and felt nauseous. "Jesus fuck," he said, though kept his voice low; he did not want to embarrass Alexia. "Oh my God, Alexia, the taste is lingering in my mouth. That gross raw oniony taste, and that disgusting bug-shell texture, and—"

"Grayson," she hissed.

"Sorry," he said, sipping his glass of Coke.

Alexia rolled her eyes and shook her head, spooning another tortellini, and some spinach, into her mouth. She chewed slowly. Then she said, "To address your earlier question, I told Birkin he was a sad, pathetic man. Among other things. Essentially, I told him the truth." She dabbed at her lips with the napkin.

"I miss all the good stuff," said Grayson, running a hand back through his hair. He helped himself to one of the dinner rolls, because they did not have onions, or gelatinous chunks of tomatoes, and dunked it in the little side-dish of olive oil and ate. "You ever find anything out on Bingham?" he asked. "I know you said you were looking. Or maybe something about Marty?"

There was a strange shift in Alexia's demeanor then, as if she had suddenly cooled. "No," she said. It was an evasive answer. "Nothing. Albert is supposed to bring some files up to me from the Arklay archives."

"You're not telling me something," he said, and his leg started doing that nervous thing, where it would bob up and down.

Alexia said, "What's that?"

"Oh, come on. You don't expect me to fall for that stupid shit, Alexia."

"No, I mean it. The band-aid on your arm."

Grayson had forgotten about the cut; he had tripped in Game Palace and caught his arm on the sharp metal corner of the change machine. He peeled the band-aid off and looked. The cut was mostly healed, a thick pink line now, and it had only been a few hours. "The hell? This shit was bleeding everywhere before. Clarence told me to go to a doctor, but I said no way."

There was a strange look on Alexia's face, a knowing. "I see," she said, finishing her tortellini soup. "I assume you're finished with your dinner?" she asked. "Considering you've stuffed yourself on rolls, and picked most of the ingredients out of your food."

His plate looked like one of those plates in five-star restaurants, where tiny gobbets of food were artistically arranged on huge white plates. Of course, his plate was not very artistic; it looked like a dinner Jackson Pollock had made, maybe as some sort of avant-garde expressionist commentary on the pointlessness of fine-dining. "Yeah, I'm done," he said.

Alexia flagged down the waiter and paid in cash, and they left. Grayson was a bit envious, though would never admit that to Alexia. She always had money in her wallet, and lots of it. Her salary was one of the higher salaries in the Umbrella Corporation, and she had her family's seemingly endless coffers to dip into. It made buying her gifts extremely difficult; her taste was not a taste he could afford.

They shared an umbrella as they made their way down the road, past shop windows framed in neon, and busy bars, where exhausted-looking professionals sat around small lacquered tables and sipped bottles of beer, while junkies waited outside the doors, stopping anyone who so much as glanced in their direction and asking, "Hey, buddy. Got change?" and flashing their broken meth smiles.

"Raccoon is disgusting," said Alexia, after a crackhead had tried, and failed, to hassle her for a dollar ("Come on, pretty girl. Just a dollar," he said, before Grayson threatened to break what was left of his teeth). "What is with all the undesirables?"

"It's getting dark, so all the weirdos are coming out," said Grayson, hooking thumbs in his belt-loops. He was used to this sort of scene; most of his family lived in the scummier parts of New Jersey, and New York. "And it's a city. Cities are hotbeds for undesirables, Alexia. Just don't make eye-contact with them, and you'll be all right.

"What if they pull a knife? Or a bloody gun?" she asked, glancing over her shoulder. The crackhead who had hassled her for a dollar was now hassling an irritated-looking black man, who told the crackhead to fuck off, or he would make him fuck off.

"They do that, I pull my switchblade and shield you. Duh." Grayson did not actually expect to be shot, or stabbed; he enjoyed messing with Alexia, because she had lived such a sheltered, privileged life, and it was easy to make her nervous.

"Grayson. Stop that. I know what you're doing."

"Doing what?"

Alexia frowned. Then she said, "'Oh, the little rich girl. Let's tease her.'"

"Okay. I'm sorry," he said, and laughed.

They caught a late movie called _Something Wicked This Way Comes_ , because Grayson had liked the poster art, and the title had sounded cool. It was an interesting and weird film, but not as great as the title, or the poster, would have suggested. Then they rode the Ecliptic back to the Spencer estate.

When they arrived at the mansion, they detoured to the bathrooms for showers. He swung by his room to change into his pajamas (Grayson did not actually sleep there, because he could get away with sleeping in the same room as Alexia now without his father and Alfred playing propriety police) and dropped by the kitchen, preparing some tea for Alexia and heading up to her room.

Grayson bumped into Birkin on the way, who wore a lab coat and his usual denim shirt with the cheap-looking red tie, and had nearly dropped Alexia's tea. He wondered if Birkin ever slept, and was starting to think that no, Birkin did not in fact sleep, and probably had not for years. "Watch where you're going, you idiot," he said.

"Why don't _you_ watch it, Billy Boy?" said Grayson, trying to shoulder past Birkin, who stepped in front of him. "Get the hell out of my way, man. Alexia's tea's gonna get cold."

"That's Alexia's tea?" Birkin took the cup from the saucer, spat in it, and put the cup back on the saucer, grinning. He had not just spit in it either, but had dripped a thick phlegmy wad into the cup, which floated on the surface of the tea like curdled milk.

Pure mindless reflex: Grayson splashed the tea on Birkin's lab coat, and Birkin shouted it was hot and swung at him. His fist caught Grayson underneath the eye, and it had hurt deeply. He dropped the saucer and cup to free his hands, and they shattered. Then threw a punch at Birkin, who got it in the stomach, and he rasped, "You hit like a kid."

Once Birkin had recovered, he swung again, but someone caught his wrist. "William. Is this really any way to behave?" It was Wesker, as omnipresent as ever. Grayson could have been on the other side of the world, in a fight with some guy in Japan, and Wesker would have materialized from a Shinjuku alleyway and intervened. The guy was a professional mediator, with Batman's impeccable timing. "He's only fifteen. I don't think this is _precisely_ the right way of going about impressing Annette. Don't you think?"

"How is it you seem to everywhere at fucking once, Albert?" asked Birkin, tearing his arm away from Wesker and rubbing his wrist, which was red from how firmly Wesker had gripped it. "We should be taking him down to Arklay. As for Annette, that's none of your goddamn business."

"Why ever would we take him down to Arklay?" said Wesker, smiling meaninglessly. Then, "As for being everywhere at once? I simply happened to be coming back from Alexia's room. I had to deliver some files to her."


	24. Interlude 9: The End Game

Two weeks passed, and Alexia had not even bothered looking at the files Wesker had brought her until now, because she'd been knee-deep in work. Alexia was also struggling to remain civil with Birkin, who had turned Annette against her, which made the proximity between them awkward and unobtrusively hostile, as if they were two sides involved in a Cold War.

Alexia sat in her bedroom now, sorting through the files. Her grandfather's memoir had been contained inside a battered leather folder, as if he'd been preparing it for submission, the pages yellowed, the typeface faded in several spots. From what Alexia had gleaned from the foreword her grandfather had written, he had typed it during the summer of 1965, when he had taken a break from his research and, for the entire season, had occupied a room in the Spencer estate in total hermitage.

If her grandfather had actually stolen Wesker's research, his memoir did not say so. It seemed almost sentimental, as if he had regretted his falling out with Marty. It was mostly a fond account of his life up until 1963, when her grandmother had unexpectedly died. He spoke of parties and drugs, and of Martin Wesker with a certain affection. Her grandfather also spoke of Martin Wesker's girlfriend Olivia Harman: she had come from a good English family, and she had been attending college in the States, where her grandfather, Marty, and Spencer had attended. There was a monochrome photograph of her paper-clipped to the page. Olivia was a dead-ringer for Elizabeth Taylor, though she had Grayson's nose and mouth.

There were other photographs paper-clipped to the pages of his memoir; her grandfather had probably intended to include them in the publication of the book. She saw a picture of a young handsome Oswell Spencer, dressed in a dark 1930s suit. There was also one of James Marcus, whose face was effeminate and serious, his hair meticulously coiffed. Another of a lost summer, and of her grandfather, who was tall and fair-haired, and dressed in a lab coat, and stood beside Spencer inside a gloomy parlor. Then she found another photograph, behind James Marcus'.

The man had a strong jaw and pale gray eyes, and pomaded black hair. He looked a bit like a young Laurence Olivier. On the back of the photograph, her grandfather had written SORRY in elegant spidery cursive.

"This must be Martin Wesker," she said, to nobody. Then it struck her: it was Bingham, though he'd been much younger then.

Bingham was Martin Wesker.

But how had Wesker gotten inside the company without Spencer, or even James Marcus, recognizing his face? Had they been planning something? Was that why Spencer had been unreachable, every time she'd called? Alexia did not want to think about it, and slipped the photograph back inside the folder.

Marty had been right under her nose. Alexia started to recall several hints Bingham had dropped: how Wesker had left a son and a wife, how Bingham himself had left a son and a woman. All those things he'd known about her grandfather. But why had Bingham lied? Alexia was beginning to doubt Bingham's story about her grandfather, and how he'd stolen his research.

There was definitely something more here. She looked over the remaining files, but found nothing relevant. The only way Alexia would find anything out, she decided, would be to ask Bingham himself.

Alexia stowed the files inside the drawer of her desk, locked it, then went down to the Arklay laboratory. Most of the scientists had gone home, though a few senior researchers lingered in the labs. She needed a distraction, and work always managed to distract her, so Alexia went to the test laboratory, slipped into a lab coat, and started working. It was two o'clock in the morning; but after everything she'd learned, Alexia couldn't sleep, even if she wanted to.

A fresh human specimen lay on the op-slab. The man's file, which was fixed to the clipboard hanging on the op-slab, stated that his name had been Donald Carrick, thirty-two, and he had died from heart failure three days ago in Raccoon General. Sometimes Umbrella obtained their specimens through legal body donations, which had been Donald Carrick's case; though the company was no stranger to obtaining specimens through illicit means, which was quite often the case, and their preferred method of operation—no red tape, and absolutely no questions.

She scrubbed her hands in the sink with antibacterial soap, then ripped open the sterile plastic of the surgical gloves and put them on. Drifting back to Donald, Alexia secured the restraints and prepped the sample Birkin and Wesker had synthesized from Grayson's blood; though she double-checked their data first. Their work was surprisingly solid and thorough. She attributed that to Birkin, who was the more intelligent of the two, and Umbrella's cutting-edge technology. In most cases, laboratories could take months, even years, to synthesize a viral strain; but they did not have the benefit of Umbrella's deep pockets, its research staff, or the progenitor virus.

Alexia prepped the needle, after she'd checked the restraints again. Then put the needle down on a piece of chuck, hooking Donald up to electrodes and rubber tubes which connected to the laboratory computer. She needed to collect as much physical data as she could on this new iteration of the prototype virus.

In the two weeks since Alexia had started working with Grayson's sample, she'd made several discoveries about Bingham's virus, and had made several improvements to the base strain. Alexia intended to apply those improvements to the T-Veronica, once she returned to Antarctica. One of those improvements was intelligence retention in mutated form. She had concluded that, if she applied similar processes to her own virus, Alexia could have a viable sample by the end of the year; though it would take fifteen years for the virus to bind to her DNA, and it would need to be done at an ultra-low temperature to bind correctly. Otherwise, she would mutate too rapidly, which was what had happened to Alexander, who, last she'd talked to Alfred, was not doing very well. The workers had started calling him Nosferatu, the thing that bumped in the night, because of his monstrous wailing and moaning from deep within the facility.

Alexia cycled the data compiler, then returned to Donald, picking up the needle. Alexia thought about her own work as she slipped the needle into the corpse's arm, and hated the fact she would need to go into cryostasis, for the next fifteen years. She had double-checked and tripled-checked her calculations, but the number always stayed the same: fifteen. That would be fifteen years of sleeping, of not seeing Grayson or Alfred, of missing nearly an entire two decades of her life. She wouldn't know what 1984 would be like, or what 1985, 1986, 1987, and everything after that would be like. And she worried that Grayson would find another girl—and he probably would—because to be human was to move on, especially in romance...

Alexia pulled the needle from Donald's dead white arm, once she'd emptied the last milliliter of the virus into his vein, and disposed of it in the plastic bio-hazard receptacle. She knew it was selfish and unrealistic to wish Grayson would not move on, and that he would wait for her; but Alexia couldn't help but feel a painful stab of possessiveness in her gut, of jealousy, when she imagined him with another girl.

She stepped away from the op-slab and turned to the computer, trying to push the unpleasant thoughts away. Donald's vitals were picking up.

Then Donald gasped, started thumping against the op-slab. His vitals spiked. Alexia looked at him. Donald struggled against the restraints, gnashing his teeth and snarling like a wild animal, his eyes burning like furnaces.

The computer was compiling the data and compressing it into a file. Donald bucked and twisted, and broke one of the restraints. Now Alexia was nervous; she hadn't expected the virus to take so well. The other restraints popped; then Donald was off the op-slab, and Alexia said, "Shit," and looked for a weapon.

Donald said, "Who are you? What is this place?"

And his skin sloughed off, made her think of the man in _Raiders of the Lost Ark_ , whose face had melted away. " _What's happening_?" said Donald, his tone absolutely blood-curdling.

A red light flashed around her. A cool feminine voice cycled a message: _Quarantine protocol activated. All personnel, please proceed to evacuate the test labs_.

Donald was screaming when Alexia cleared the laboratory. The automated door closed behind her, the gaskets sealing with a hiss. She could still see him through the one-way observation window. Donald clambered toward the window, at inhuman speed, smearing the glass with a bloody hand-print.

Birkin arrived first, followed by Wesker and Annette. They were still dressed for work, and had probably not slept. Birkin said, "We were running some tests in the laboratory. Then this shit happens. What the fuck did you _do,_ Ashford?"

"I was working on the new human specimen," said Alexia. She didn't yet fully understand what had happened to Donald, or what she'd done wrong. "I used the new virus iteration I'd developed from your synthesized strain to compile physical data," she added. "The subject went haywire, started rapidly decomposing. It triggered the contagion alarm."

"You shouldn't even be down here without supervision," said Annette. "You're only thirteen. And now look, you've contaminated the test lab. We're going to have to get decontam down here."

"Need I remind you that you used _my_ treatise for _your_ dissertation, Annette?" said Alexia, folding her arms across her chest. "I know what I'm doing. I run the bloody Antarctica facility. You swap petri dishes for Birkin, and clean and calibrate his fucking equipment. In more ways than one, I'm sure."

Annette said nothing, and Alexia knew it was because she was right.

"Go kill yourself, Alexia," snapped Birkin.

"William, shut up. Alexia, no need to stoop to tasteless sexual innuendo." Inspecting the hand-print on the glass, Albert added, "This is the third time," and shook his head.

"Third time?" said Alexia.

Albert nodded. "We experimented on two others. The same thing happened."

"Pretty sure the virus is tailored," said Birkin. "At least that's what the data suggests. Every human has their own unique code, and this one was written specifically for Harman's. My guess is, like in Nigel Black's case a couple of months ago, death would trigger the virus. But you won't let us kill the brat to find out."

Alexia had her own guesses, but wouldn't share them with the group. Bingham—Martin Wesker—was Grayson's grandfather. She was sure Bingham had picked Grayson because of their shared DNA. Scott was too old; their cut-off for specimens was thirty-five. After that, age became too great of a detriment, too great of an expense to ensure the subject's viability, and Scott was in his mid-forties.

Bingham wanted to ensure his product worked, Alexia realized. Before he injected himself.


	25. Part Two - The Future

Grayson said good-bye to Clarence, who lived in a nice brownstone in Raccoon's downtown, which seemed to be a predominantly middle-class neighborhood of office professionals and trade-workers who owned their own businesses. The brothers lived with their mother, who was a nurse at Raccoon General, and their father, who operated his own electrical business. His couple of nights there had been nothing at all like the life he was accustomed to, which was a certain vicarious affluence; but he had enjoyed the normalness of it.

Clarence was the first friend Grayson had made outside of the twins. He loved Alexia and Alfred—they would always be his best friends—but sometimes he wanted to talk to other people, remind himself that nobody lived like he did, and that the world was still gloriously mundane. He hoped Alexia would not be angry he had taken off without a word, but knew Alexia had a temper, even if it wasn't always obvious. She seemed convinced that, whenever he wandered from her sight, he was committing mass arson, stoking anarchy, mugging people in dark alleys and running with gangbangers and crackheads.

He stopped at a payphone, down the street from Clarence's house, in front of a corner-store owned by a balding Italian man, who was hanging the CLOSED sign in the glass, looking tired and miserable. They made eye contact, and the man gave him a gruff look, then disappeared.

"Sorry your day was shit," said Grayson aloud, shaking his head. He turned to the payphone and fed several quarters into the pay-slot, punching in Umbrella's HR number. The chrome was thumb-smudged, and had a greasy yellowish sheen. He would call his father first, just to check in, and then he would call Alexia to let her know he was still alive, and had not in fact burned down anything.

The phone rang for a few moments. Then a man on the other side said, "Thank you for calling the Human Resources office of Umbrella Inc. May I help you?"

"Yeah, hi. My name's Grayson Harman," said Grayson, somewhat clumsily. He had never been very good at talking on the phone. "I'm in the system. I need an extension to Antarctica." He did not know how Umbrella had achieved their extension system, but knew it had something to do with a private satellite network commissioned by Spencer. Grayson could pretty much call any Umbrella laboratory in the world, no matter how remote.

"One moment," said the man on the other side, and Grayson heard the tapping of computer keys. The guy was running his name through the verification check. Grayson watched the lights in the corner-store go out, and then the balding Italian man came out and locked up the place. When he saw Grayson, he said, "How you doing?" and went away. "I don't seem to have your name in our database, Mr. Harman. But I do have a Scott Harman listed."

"That's my dad. He works for Alexander Ashford." Alexander was dead of course, but the man on the phone did not know that.

"One moment," said the phone-man, and he put Grayson on hold. Tinny elevator music played, backed by a simple drum rhythm which sounded vaguely Latin in its style. Then the music stopped, and the man was back on the line. "Patching you through, Mr. Harman. You've been verified."

"Finally," said Grayson, sighing.

The phone rang a few times. Then Alfred picked up and said, "Isn't it just _fun_ trying to call the facility, Harman? I remember I'd called Alexia once, and it took thirty minutes—fifteen of which was spent listening to smooth jazz."

"Yeah. Super fun," said Grayson, grinning. He watched a couple walk past, disappearing into the shadows of the trees that lined the street. The concrete reflected watery neon polychrome, and there was a slow rain coming down, petrichor thick on the air. "Dad there?"

"He is. But first, how's Alexia?"

"She's fine, Alfred. Up at Spencer's place right now."

"Where the bloody hell are you then?"

Grayson looked up at the sign on the corner of the street. "Corner of Blossom and Ivy, outside some corner-store. In downtown Raccoon."

"Why are you not with Alexia?" said Alfred, and he sounded worried, slowly trending toward angry. "Harman, you _can't_ let my sister out of your sight. If something happens to her, it will be _your_ neck. Do you hear me? I will _break_ your neck with my own hands."

"Whoa. Relax, Alfred. She's fine. Alexia's a big girl. She can operate okay on her own," he said, untwisting the cord from his arm and leaning against the payphone. "I'm heading back to Spencer's place now. Gotta temp pass for the Ecliptic. Anyway, can I talk to dad? If he's up. Not sure what time it is there."

"It's 2 pm here," said Alfred, as if he should have known that already. "One moment. I'll transfer you over to the mansion extension."

"If you play any on-hold music, Alfred, I will kill you."

Alfred laughed, and rang him through to the mansion. His father answered. "Hey, kiddo. How's Raccoon? Miss you here at the mansion."

"I'm fine, dad. Just checking in. How's things?"

"Not bad," said his father. "Little lonely around here without you and princess, but Alfred and I have been getting by just fine. Strangest thing though, I haven't seen Alexander in weeks. Any idea what's going on?"

 _We killed him_. Grayson said, "Nope, no idea. Maybe he's away on business?"

"He's usually not gone this long," said his father.

"I wouldn't worry too much about it, dad," said Grayson. He managed to sound convincing, which surprised him. Normally, he was not the best liar, especially when it came to his father, who had a knack for guilting him into the truth without even trying. But Grayson wanted to protect the twins. "If he never came back, what would happen to Alexia and Alfred?"

It sounded as if his father did not wholly dismiss the idea that Alexander would never come back. He said, "I'd become their guardian. Alexander and I already discussed it, months ago. I think maybe he was trying to get out. He seemed really unhappy. I think being the black sheep was starting to weigh on him, kiddo. But don't tell the twins anything. I don't want them worried that their dad won't come back."

 _They would not worry at all_ , Grayson thought. "Sure, dad. I won't say anything. Would it be an official adoption? I mean, I don't want to be dating my step-sister."

"No, not an official adoption," said his father. "Stanley would probably contest it out of spite, because I'm blue-collar and American. You know, not good enough to raise a couple of rich 'proper English' kids. Catherine would probably hop on the bandwagon too for the same reason—as if either of them have actually ever given a shit about the twins. 'Damn peasant', and that whole song. No thanks. If I tried adopting them, kiddo, it would literally start an all-out, and very expensive, custody war in the Ashford family."

"What about their mom?" Grayson knew absolutely nothing about the twins' mother, only that she had been a rented body.

"Their mom is unreachable, and even if I could reach her, she wants nothing to do with the kids, kiddo. She was a donor. You know Alexia's situation, right?"

"I do. Didn't know you knew, dad."

"I know a lot of things. I was there when the twins were born."

"Know anything about their mom? I'm just curious."

"Afraid not, kiddo. Heard she was pretty, but that's about it. Don't know if the twins look like her at all. Not really sure how the whole cloning process works." His father laughed.

"So you're basically gonna be their Alfred Pennyworth," said Grayson, smiling.

"If Alexander doesn't come back? Yep. Except the twins aren't going to be putting on capes. But let's not jump our guns just yet, kiddo."

"Sure, dad. Anyway, I gotta go."

"Okay, Grayson. Stay safe." His father hung up.

It was raining harder now. Grayson turned the collar of his jean jacket up, and walked away from the payphone—then it rang. He knew he should not probably answer it, because that was how horror movies started: with a mysterious call. But he took the phone off its cradle and listened. It was Bingham, and he sounded entirely too pleased about something.

"Hello, Grayson. How are you feeling?" asked Bingham, and his voice creeped Grayson out, because over the phone it sounded distorted, almost demonic, a voice penetrating hell-fuzz.

"Dr. Bingham, how did you know—"

"My boy, I know so many things. And you do realize that every payphone has its own number. Scott just called you, didn't he? Or rather, you just called Scott." Grayson could hear the smile in his voice, and it made the hairs on his neck stand up, even more so because Bingham had known he had been talking to his father. He wondered if Bingham had heard their conversation, if he had been listening, in total silence, on a third line.

"Y-yeah," said Grayson, shakily. He wanted to hang up, but something compelled him—perhaps stupid curiosity—to hear Bingham out.

"I just wanted to see how you were doing. The shot I gave you isn't making you sick anymore, is it?" The sheer politeness in Bingham's tone made Grayson's skin crawl.

"No. I'm fine," said Grayson, swallowing the lump in his throat. "I'm okay."

"Splendid! Have you experienced anything different? Strange new sensations?"

Grayson did not feel much different than he had prior to the shot. He still felt like Grayson, but a slightly more improved version. "I guess I feel healthier?" he said, because he did not know how to explain it.

"Good, good. Do take care, Grayson. I'll be in touch." The line went dead. Grayson slammed the phone back on its cradle and walked away as fast as he could.

He cabbed to the Umbrella facility on the edge of the town and, after waiting several minutes for the security guard to verify his identity and the authenticity of his temp pass, he took the Ecliptic back to the Spencer estate. The whole ride up to the mansion, he kept thinking about Bingham, and how much their brief conversation unnerved him.

Arriving at the Arklay platform, Grayson headed for the stairs. There was an automated door beside the set of stairs, a terminal mounted beside it, and he guessed that was where the Arklay researchers worked. He had tried to go inside once, but had gotten nowhere; he did not have the right ID card to scan, and the door was sealed air-tight.

Once Grayson was inside the foyer, Alexia waylaid him and said, in her best mom-voice, "You _better_ have a good explanation." She was dressed in a dark gray cardigan, a white blouse with an arrow-collar, and a skirt with faded blue floral print. "You've been gone for _four days_ , Grayson." Her eyes hardened to nuggets of ice. She snapped, "I thought you were dead, kidnapped, or in bloody jail being sodomized." Alexia thrust her finger into his chest. "You didn't leave a number for me to call. Nor did you tell me where you were going, or who you were with. I had _no way_ of contacting you. _For four days_."

"First off, I don't have to tell you everything I'm goddamn doing," said Grayson, poking her in the chest just as hard. "You are not my mom, Alexia. And seriously? In jail, being sodomized?" He shook his head.

"How should I know you weren't being sodomized? You didn't leave me a bloody number," said Alexia, making several dramatic gestures with her hands. Then, almost shouting, "And don't you _dare_ tell me it isn't any of my business, Grayson! You're my boyfriend, for one. Secondly, you're my bloody butler. You _are_ my business. You were gone for four days, without a single word. I wanted to call the police, but Albert convinced me it wasn't necessary. 'He probably went out,' Albert had said. 'He's a teenage boy, Alexia. I think you need to calm down."

"Okay, I'm fucking sorry," said Grayson. "Settle the fuck down, Alexia. Before your capillaries burst."

" _Don't you dare_ presume to tell _me_ what to do! I will settle down when I'm damn good and ready," she said, through her teeth. Grayson waited. Alexia just needed to run out of steam, get it out of her system, and then she would say she was sorry, and it would all be okay. After a few moments, she visibly cooled, said, "Sorry," and Grayson smiled because he had called it. "I was just so worried about you."

Wesker had probably watched the entire scene. He came from the direction of the kitchen, a cup of coffee in his hand, and said, "So adorable. Your first lover's spat." He grinned, then sipped his coffee. His lab coat was gone, but not his sunglasses. He wore a dark tweed sports jacket over a nice black shirt; it looked as if he had just returned from a date, or a party.

"Albert, would you kindly mind your business?" said Alexia.

"You missed Gary's birthday party at the Red Dog, Alexia," said Wesker, clearly not wanting to mind his business and go away. "Nice bar and grill. Birkin even came out. Got absolutely shitfaced, so I had to drive him to the Ecliptic. We just got back. Him and Annette stumbled back to his room. Lucky man. God knows he needs it."

"I don't much care about Birkin's sex-life, or about your stupid party. I'm talking to Grayson, Albert. Besides, I thought you weren't going to the party."

"I changed my mind," said Wesker, and he shrugged.

Realizing Wesker did not intend to go away any time soon, Alexia pushed Grayson outside onto the mansion steps and shut the door behind her. Wesker did not follow them. The porch was wide, with a steep set of stone steps, and a roof, where a wrought-iron kerosene lamp hung from a thin chain: the sole light in the wood-darkness that enveloped the mansion. Alexia kissed him, then asked, "Where _were_ you, Grayson?"

Rain pattered on the leaves of the trees, and on the steps. He could hear insects, mostly crickets, chirping in the woods. "Clarence's house. He was out of school for spring break, so I stayed over. It was fun. We ordered pizza and watched movies, and Clarence has a Commodore 64, so we played some games too. Went to the mall, checked out this cool record shop. Caught another movie, and hung out at Game Palace."

Alexia frowned. "I could have done those things with you too, Grayson," she said.

"You're always busy with work, Alexia," said Grayson. For the last two weeks, now nearly three weeks, Alexia had been buried in her research. The only time he had seen her was when she had gone to bed. "And don't get me wrong, Alexia. I get it. You have a career. I'm still a student, so I don't have all this shit going on like you do."

"I'm sorry I haven't been around more," she said, and she sighed. Then, "Speaking of student, you still owe me some assignments. I want those completed, Grayson. I'm serious. I will fail you."

"They're already done. I put them on your desk before I went to Clarence's."

"Must have missed them," she said, rubbing her eyes. "I've been so bloody busy."

"Oh, I wanted to tell you something," said Grayson, holding her hands. He brushed his thumb over her knuckles. Then, "Bingham, he called me on a payphone. I called dad to check-in, see. It was really creepy, Alexia. Something's seriously wrong with the fucking guy."

"What did he say to you, Grayson?"

"Asked me if I was feeling okay. If I felt any different than usual. I said not really, I felt pretty much the same as always."

Her expression was unreadable. Then Alexia said, "I need to get in touch with the Board. I sent them the necessary paper-work to their office to explain why Bingham needs to be terminated, and kick-start the firing process. The trial in Europe is over with, so the Board should be available. I don't know about Spencer, however. Did Scott mention anything, perhaps?"

Grayson shook his head. "Dad didn't say anything about Spencer. Sorry. And can't you just fire Bingham? Thought you were his boss."

"I am his boss. All I do is clear checks and allocate bonuses," said Alexia. "I have bosses. The Board, Spencer. I have to appeal to them when I want to fire a senior researcher like Bingham. The only people I can fire without appealing to the Board first are your rank-and-file scientists, technicians, and security."

"That's so fucking stupid," said Grayson.

"It's so Umbrella doesn't lose potentially valuable resources," said Alexia. "The company is gluttonous when it comes to scientific talent. Blame Spencer for that. On the bright side, it means my position is essentially tenured, unless I _really_ fuck up. Spencer would sooner chew his arm off than lose me to the competition. And believe me, there is _plenty_ of competition. Every company in the Global Pharmaceutical Consortium would be scrabbling for my resume."

"Oh, yeah. One other thing I should mention," said Grayson, remembering his conversation with his father. "Dad's starting to ask about Alexander. Think he's convinced Alexander ran off. He told me not to tell you, because he didn't wanna worry you."

Alexia laughed. "Oh, Scott. His heart's in the right place. Did he say anything else? He doesn't suspect our involvement in his disappearance, does he?"

"Nope," said Grayson, shaking his head. "I don't think dad will ever suspect you or Alfred. He adores you guys. He did say that if Alexander didn't come back, he'd be appointed as your guardian. Just until you turned eighteen, I guess."

She frowned then, as if he had just said something hurtful. "I see," she said.

"What? I thought you liked dad."

"I love Scott," said Alexia, but she was still frowning. "Just thinking, I suppose."

"About what?"

"About the future."


	26. Part Two - Jersey Molly's

Two days later, they ate at a diner called Jersey Molly's, on Ennerdale Street, because Grayson had wanted a pork roll sandwich and fries. The owner Molly, who was a middle-aged Greek woman, had moved to Raccoon from Gloucester because she liked the drier climate out here, and because Jersey had become too expensive for her. He had often heard his aunt complain about the taxes, and he had suggested, on several occasions, that she should probably move; but his aunt was adamant to stay in Atlantic City, because she had been there since the Fifties, and did not like change.

Molly was one of those rare managers who bused tables and brought food out alongside her wait-staff, who were all related to Molly in some way. Except their waitress, an auburn-haired girl named Stacy, who was a local, and wore a perpetually helpless look as her co-workers loudly argued with each other in Greek. Clearly, Grayson thought, she had no experience with Jersey Greeks, and neither did the patrons, who stared and said things like, "I've never seen something like this," or, "They Italian? Don't understand a goddang word..."

The place was also decorated in the garish neon of Jersey diners, an uneasy style somewhere between loud chrome futurism and 1950s rainbow vomit. Grayson liked it, but could tell Alexia did not share his appreciation. She was trying her best not to stare at Molly and her wait-staff, who were now yelling across the diner and gesticulating at each other like furious epileptics, and kept looking down at at her coffee.

"This is utterly uncomfortable," she muttered, shaking her head.

"You learn to appreciate the weirdness," said Grayson, and shrugged. Someone chunked a quarter into the jukebox across the room, and Billy Joel started singing _Piano Man._

Alexia tore the foil from a half-and-half and dumped the contents into her coffee, as well as three packets of sugar. "I hate Billy Joel," she said, stirring. "And I hate this stupid song in particular."

Clarence came over to their booth. He was grinning, and wore a white jacket, black shirt, and jeans. He sat down beside Grayson, and almost knocked Alexia's coffee over, who said, "Watch what you're bloody doing," and stopped it from spilling all over the table.

"Hey, Alexia. Grayson invited me," said Clarence. "Sorry I'm late."

"We already ate, man," said Grayson, nudging him with his elbow. "Well, I did. That's Alexia's second coffee."

"Yeah, sorry about that. Had to pick Sean up from Karate," said Clarence, scratching his shaggy red head. He watched Alexia. Then, "She always so snippy?"

"Alexia? She's got an aversion to niceness," said Grayson. "You learn to appreciate it, man." He toed Alexia's leg under the table because he wanted to annoy her, and she kicked his foot away and told him to knock it off. Grayson laughed.

"So what's it like being thirteen and working for the Umbrella Corporation?" asked Clarence, watching Alexia across the dull plastic table.

"Nobody ever believes I'm a scientist," said Alexia. "That's the biggest bloody challenge."

"I got an uncle who works for them," said Clarence. "He's with Umbrella security. And my aunt, she's a researcher over at the plant here in town. Company employs almost half the damn population in Raccoon."

"Who's your aunt?" asked Grayson, even though he knew he would not know her, because he did not know anyone who worked for Umbrella beyond his limited circle of friends and acquaintances.

"Her name's Annette Collins," said Clarence. "She's my mom's younger sister. She just started working at the lab."

"Does she know a William Birkin?" asked Alexia, narrowing her eyes in a way that suggested she would not be happy if she did.

"She's dating some guy named William. Don't know his last name," said Clarence, shrugging. Clarence did not seem to notice, or perhaps he had pretended not to notice, the look Alexia had given him. "Aunt Annette doesn't really talk about her personal life. But this guy? She won't fucking shut up about him. Came over the other night, and it was just, 'Bill this', 'Bill that', and 'Oh Bill's a wonderful, smart guy, you really need to meet him, Fiona.' Fiona's my mom's name, by the way."

"Certainly sounds like Annette," said Alexia, finishing her coffee.

"Is she that lady I saw slinking around the mansion?" asked Grayson. He had seen a blonde woman, the morning after Wesker had returned from that party. She had been sneaking around the Spencer estate, and had looked as if she had not slept much at all.

"Mansion?" said Clarence, visibly confused.

"Nothing," said Alexia, giving Grayson a searing look: _shut up_. "It's our nickname for the plant. Inside joke."

"Oh," said Clarence, drumming his fingers on the table. He looked at Grayson. Then, "You wanna head to Game Palace, man?" He glanced at the digital Casio on his wrist. "We got a couple hours until it closes. I can drive us over there."

"Grayson is hanging out with _me_ right now," said Alexia, hotly.

"Me and Grayson already made plans," said Clarence.

"Sorry, Alexia. I thought I told you," said Grayson, and slid from the booth, once Clarence had moved. He was sure he had mentioned it to her; he guessed Alexia had probably been busy when he had told her.

"So you're just going to leave?" said Alexia, and she gave him one of her turns-blood-cold looks. It reminded Grayson of a cat's cold blank stare, while it patiently waited for its owner to die so it could feast on their dead flesh.

"You wanna come?" asked Grayson, working his best smile.

" _Come on_ , Grayson. Do you have to bring your girlfriend everywhere with you?" said Clarence.

"What's wrong with me tagging along?" said Alexia, standing up. She threw a twenty on the table. "Don't give me that nonsense about being female." She looked at Grayson. "Were you planning on seeing girls? Should I be concerned?"

Before Grayson could answer, Clarence said, "Actually, never mind. I forgot, I'm supposed to do something." He left.

"Thanks, Alexia. You pissed him off," said Grayson.

"You're the one making plans behind my back," said Alexia. They went to the cashier by the door, and Alexia paid for their meal. Molly, who was behind the register, just smiled and told them to have a good night. They went out.

"Alexia, I don't have to run every goddamn thing I do by you," said Grayson. The street was wet from the rain earlier, and a damp mist hung in the air, diffusing the mercury vapors to soft greens, and the neon to a fuzzy electric rainbow. "Maybe sometimes I just wanna hang out with another guy around my age?" he said, once they were on the sidewalk. "I'm not Alfred. You don't kick me around and expect me to just take it and say thank you."

"What's wrong with me?" she asked. "Is my presence suddenly so repulsive to you?"

Grayson knew Alexia did not entirely mean to come across so selfish. It was a by-product of her upbringing, where she had always been told she was the axis around which everything revolved, the final hope for the Ashford name, Umbrella's final saving grace. Her upbringing had been a selfish one, and though his father had tried to teach her a sense of humility, his lessons had never truly sunk in because Alexia was convinced she was infallible.

"You're not repulsive to me at all," said Grayson. "God. You're fucking gorgeous, intelligent, and dunno why you go for a goof like me. Shit, any guy would be lucky to have you as his girl, and I guess I'm the luckiest guy around because you like being with me so much." He paused. "You just smother, and that's the issue. And I mean, I know you don't mean it, Alexia. You've always been taught people are there to bend over for you, and Alfred sure as hell doesn't help anything..."

Alexia was silent, and that could either be a good or bad thing. It could mean she was reflecting on his words, or she was mentally measuring his body for an acid bath, once she had finished killing him. Then she said, "I see your point." She did not sound angry.

"What's gotten into you lately anyway?" Grayson had noticed a recent weird trend with Alexia: she had become clingier, as if she expected him to vanish into thin air at any second. Normally, Alexia came and went like a cat, aloof to most affection that did not come in the form of ego-worship.

Alexia frowned. He could tell something was bothering her. But he also knew she would not tell him what was bothering her unless she felt that she absolutely needed to. "Nothing, Grayson. I promise." They started to walk. Then she said, "If I vanished for several years, what would you do?"

He guessed Alexia was fishing for a compliment; though he did not mind taking the bait. "I'd be devastated," he said, and meant it. Grayson could not imagine his life without Alexia for any extended period of time. The thought left a cold emptiness in his stomach. "Is something going on?"

"No," said Alexia, and she smiled. "I just wanted to hear you say that."

Grayson gave her a playful shove, and almost knocked Alexia into a woman who was passing by. He said sorry, and the woman told him that he should not be pushing a girl around like that, and vanished. "Clearly she doesn't know how mean you can be," he joked, hands in his pockets.

They returned to the Spencer estate. As soon as they walked inside, Birkin came out of nowhere and said to Alexia, "You're going to want to check something out in the lab, Ashford." He glanced at Grayson. Then, "Kick rocks, kid. Ashford and I got business to discuss."


	27. Interlude 9: Frankenstein

Alexia walked with Birkin to the Arklay laboratory. She was brought to Isolation, which looked more like a mugshot room than an observational lab. A woman paced on the other side of the glass. Wesker sat at a control panel on their side of the one-way, his features composed in a look of chilly aloofness behind the dark sunglasses.

The woman was tall, dark-haired, and very naked, and Alexia could not really see her face. Her cell was a featureless concrete space lit by fluorescence, which made the woman look dead and gaunt in its harsh colorless glow. Fresh blood was splattered on the walls and floor, in stark contrast to the grayness of the woman's cell, and on the white sheets of her cot, which, other than a stainless steel toilet, was the only furniture in the room. "Subject's name is Anna Bentley." Wesker tapped out something out on the computer, bright lines of code scudding across his sunglasses. "Don't worry," he added. "Miss Bentley can't hear us right now. We moved her from the test labs this afternoon."

"Who is she?" asked Alexia, pulling on a lab coat. "And where did all that blood come from?"

"We made a few improvements to your tweaks on the prototype virus," said Birkin, and he smiled with the smugness of a man who thought he could do nothing wrong. "Your changes to the virus helped us expedite the latest iteration, Ashford. Least you're good for something. This is the result." He waved his clipboard at Anna.

"The blood," said Wesker, without looking at her, "came from her handlers. Crushed their skulls like eggshells, Alexia. It was impressive." He smirked. Then, "And to address your earlier question, Anna Bentley is nobody. She was a student at Raccoon U, who tragically died from an overdose on her mother's prescription opiates." Wesker shook his head. "Kids."

Alexia sat down beside Wesker. Anna came over to the window and pressed her hands to it, smearing old blood on the glass. Her eyes burned the color of fire, her pupils thin vertical slits. "How did you manage to stem decomposition?"

"Remember how I said Harman's prototype was tailored to him?" said Birkin, scribbling something on the clipboard with a disposable pen, which had RACCOON BANK stamped on it. "We took samples from Anna in there and replaced Harman's genetic strains with hers. In essence, we tailored the virus to her DNA." He glanced at his watch. It was one of those cheap thirty-dollar metal ones Alexia saw sold in department stores. "It's been three hours since the subject reanimated."

"She's demonstrated sentience as well. Observe," said Wesker, sliding a switch, then tapping a small red button on the control panel. He spoke into a microphone mounted to the terminal. "Anna. How are you feeling now?" he asked, in the sort of comfortable tone a doctor used when asking preliminary health questions, and did not want to seem intrusive.

"I want to go home," said Anna. Her voice was cold and empty. "Who are you? Why am I here?"

Birkin kept glancing up at Anna, then scribbling more on his clipboard. Alexia listened.

"Don't worry. You're in good hands," said Wesker. "Can you tell me the last thing you remember, Anna?"

"I told you," said Anna, deadly calm. "I was upset. My best friend took him—I ran back to the house. I found my mom's pain-killers, and then..." A twinge worked through Anna's pale features, as if she had just felt sudden, sharp migraine-pain. "I woke up here. Who are you? I want to go home now. I hate this place. It smells in here."

"We'll clean it up," said Wesker, and he tapped the small red button on the control panel again. Then he looked at Alexia and said, "The prototype dulled her sense of emotion. We've attempted to elicit an emotional response from the girl—"

"But we got nothing," said Birkin, setting the clipboard down. "It's like that fucking movie Blade Runner. You know how the cops do the Turing test to separate the androids from the humans? It's like that. She just doesn't give a shit about anything. Can't tell if it was an intentional effect of the virus—you know: _There is no Emotion, there is Peace_ —or if it was conditional, or just completely unintended because the synthetic parasites made a few typos in their genetic re-write."

"Another problem is viability," said Wesker, making a small, pointless adjustment to his tie. "Miss Bentley isn't going to be alive much longer. She has another hour or two, give or take. We just don't have the technology or genetic techniques to really extend the longevity of the virus."

"That was a problem I ran into," said Alexia, remembering her own research with the T-Veronica. "I've done the calculations. The right technology won't be available until around 2007. Right now, mutation is almost impossible to circumvent when it comes to tapping into the true potentials of these viruses. All I've managed to do is come up with a solution that will allow the host to remain sentient and stable in mutant form. Though I do aim to develop a viable means to completely eschew the need for mutation. But that won't be for several years."

"You really think your T-Veronica shit is going to get anywhere?" said Birkin, laughing. "It's a stupid premise, Ashford. Queen ants? _Come on_. Bingham's prototype is where the potential is. Face it, the guy's smarter than you."

"Is he? Without me, Bingham's virus would still be utterly unstable," said Alexia, getting up. "Virology takes years to truly perfect, Birkin. Even your G-Virus will haves its drawbacks because of a lack of good technology and technique. All we can do is continue to make necessary improvements on the strains as the technology becomes available."

"And without Wesker and I, you wouldn't have a viable specimen," said Birkin.

"And if I hadn't made the necessary improvements to the base strain, we wouldn't have a viable specimen."

"Would you both shut up? We _all_ had a hand in this momentous milestone." Wesker printed something from the computer and passed it to her. "Here, Alexia," he said. "The data from our observations of Miss Bentley. I'll send you the transcripts of our conversation with the specimen later, once we've conducted a full sentience test. We're running on a short clock."

Alexia took the print-outs and glanced them over. She stapled them, opening one of the filing cabinets and removing an empty folder. "Thank you, Albert," she said, shutting the cabinet and slipping the papers into the folder. "I'll leave you both to it."

"Not going to hang around and nag us, Ashford?" said Birkin.

"No. I'm also running on a short clock." Alexia left. Though it was exciting they had managed to create a viable sample, however short-term, Alexia wanted to make her last few months with Grayson count.

She returned to her room and found tea, and a small plate of shortbread, waiting for her. Alexia smiled. Grayson had gone somewhere with Clarence, but had cared enough to make her something to eat before he had taken off. She took off her lab coat and hung it on the door-peg, then sat down at her desk. Nibbling on a finger of shortbread, Alexia opened the folder Wesker had given her and started to review the data.

When Alexia looked at the clock again, an hour had already passed, and she was only halfway through the folder. Someone knocked, and she knew immediately that it was not Grayson, because he never knocked if the door was unlocked. "Come in," said Alexia. "The door is open."

Wesker stepped inside. "Miss Bentley just died. They took her body to hazard disposal," he said conversationally, handing her a stack of transcripts. "As promised, Alexia. Here you are."

"Thank you, Albert."

"I've been meaning to ask." Wesker closed the door behind him. "Did you find anything interesting in your grandfather's memoir?"

Alexia did not want to tell him, or any of her colleagues, that Bingham was Martin Wesker. She wanted Bingham done away with as quietly as possible. "Only what you knew," she lied. "It wasn't even finished. Seems grandfather either lost interest in it, or forgot about the memoir altogether."

Wesker nodded. "I figured it was a shot in the dark. Anyway, good night, Alexia." He disappeared. Alexia could hear Wesker's heavy footsteps receding down the hall, then go away entirely.

She turned back to the folder. Her phone rang. Alexia took the phone off its cradle and said, "Alexia Ashford speaking. Who is this?" It was probably someone from Umbrella. The only calls she received in the Spencer estate were extension transfers from HR, usually from her brother, Grayson, or Scott.

"Alexia Ashford? My name is Irene Caldwell." The woman had a professional phone-voice, endemic to secretaries and telemarketers. "I represent the Board of Directors. It's come to our attention that you recently submitted a termination request for Martin Bingham? We received your paperwork."

"I did," said Alexia. "Dr. Bingham was falsifying his progress reports. His research has yielded nothing. He has cost the company, and the Ashford family, incredible sums in baseless vanity work. It's beginning to cut too deeply into my facility's budget. The details are in my report."

"We're presently in the process of review, Dr. Ashford," said Irene. "But the Board will keep you updated."

"Thank you," said Alexia.

"Of course. Thank you for bringing this to our attention, Dr. Ashford." The line clicked, dial-tone droning in her ear.

Alexia put the phone back. She was glad the Board had finally initiated the termination process. She had been extremely thorough when she had fudged the numbers on her last financial report, and when she had changed the data on Bingham's lab reports. Normally, Alexia did not like to cheat because she had never needed to; but Bingham was a difficult ship to sink, and required a certain under-handed finesse.

She finished her tea, which had gone lukewarm, and decided to take a walk around the balustrade in the foyer. There were large diamond-paned windows which overlooked the mansion yard. Alexia noticed a flashlight bobbing beneath the trees that shaded the road leading up to the mansion. She went outside and stood on the porch, seeing Grayson. He was dressed in his usual Johnny Cade denim, and he was smiling.

"It's really cool walking through the woods," he said, beaming. "Clarence thought it was a little weird, but I convinced him I'd be okay. I know you didn't want anyone coming up to the mansion." Grayson looked around. It was a warm, clear night, and the insects and frogs were making noises in the trees. "You can tell summer's almost here. Just a month or so to go."

"You walked the entire road by yourself? Grayson, you could have taken the Ecliptic," said Alexia.

"And miss a nice stroll on a beautiful night like this? Hell no. You can see the stars clear as day out here. It's amazing."

"Are you feeling all right?" There was something in Grayson's eyes that seemed a little off. They had a slightly glazed look. Then she smelled something on his clothes. "Is that marijuana I smell?" she said. " _Grayson_!"

"Clarence did most of the smoking. I only took a few hits," he said, and shrugged. "I'm okay. It's cool. I'm a big guy for fifteen, Alexia. I can fend off squirrels or forest hobos if I need to."

"My _ass_ you only took a few hits." She smacked his chest. "First it's the cigarettes, and now you're smoking weed? I should go to Clarence and box his bloody ears. Or better yet, turn you over to Scott."

Grayson hugged her without warning, and would not let her go. "You need to stop being so damn serious," he said. "It was fun. Clarence invited me out with some friends, and we made a bonfire near this lake he knows about, way back in the woods. Wish you'd have been there, but you were doing stupid Umbrella stuff."

Alexia deflated. Grayson had a way of calming her without even trying, something in his presence. She hugged him, enjoying the closeness. "I'm sorry, Grayson. You said outside that diner you wanted space." She looked at him. "So I gave you space. Besides, I had work I needed to do."

"I know," said Grayson, and even though it had been such a simple phrase, Alexia's heart sank because he had been so okay with the idea, so normalized to it. She hated how much work consumed her life; but that was the price she paid for trading her childhood for a career.

"Whatever time we have left in Raccoon, I'm going to do my best to spend more time with you," said Alexia, and smiled. "And I won't be so obtrusive about it this time, Grayson. I promise."

"How about a walk?" said Grayson, letting her go and grabbing her hand. He started leading her away, down the road. One thing Alexia had always liked about him was his spontaneity, and how childishly he approached everything. Grayson approached the world with a toddler's logic: everything was amazing when it was amazing, and there were rarely ever any downsides. "Not too far. Just a little," he said. "The stars are fucking gorgeous out here."


	28. Part Three - The Magic Words

They had spent the last few weeks in Raccoon together, just as Alexia had promised. Grayson had said good-bye to Clarence, who had told him to keep in touch, and Grayson had said he would, no problem, but knew it would not be possible. Umbrella monitored their lines with the careful scrutiny of cops reviewing a particularly hot wire, and if you got caught talking to someone on the Outside, you might disappear. Grayson had heard from Alfred that people regularly disappeared because they failed to follow the protocol. And he did not doubt that. After their situation with Alexander—how the clean-up had come into Alexia's office as if the circumstances were typical of the job—Grayson was sure that Umbrella had no conscience about making people vanish.

Grayson finally got around to unpacking his stuff. There was a knock at his door, and his father stood there, filling the door-frame. "Still haven't heard from Alexander, kiddo," he said, gravely. "Pretty sure he's not coming back." His father sighed, running a hand through his thick dark hair. He wore a nice black suit, which looked custom, and had probably been a gift from the twins. The twins usually bought him nice suits for his birthdays, or for holidays.

"Sorry to hear that, dad," said Grayson, trying his best to make the regret sound authentic.

"I don't know what to tell the kids," said his father. Automatically, he started helping Grayson fold his clothes, and told him he still could not fold his socks right. His dad had a meticulous way of doing everything—especially laundry, which his father took a certain weird pride in, and had developed a specific set of techniques for—and it drove Grayson crazy because he could not understand why it mattered how someone folded their socks. "'Hey, kiddos, your dad's not coming back. But it's okay, I'm going to take care of you.' No, that's terrible. 'Your dad went on a long vacation'. No, that's just as bad." He sighed. "I don't know how to break it to them, Grayson."

Grayson knew the twins did not actually give a single shit about Alexander, and it would not matter how his father told them. He said, "Just be blunt, I guess. You know how Alexia and Alfred are, dad. They're incapable of nuance."

"I don't know. Alexia can be kind of sneaky sometimes," said his father, smiling. He draped one of Grayson's shirts over his arm, folded, then neatly laid it inside the drawer. "When Alexia was little—I'm talking four, maybe five—I'd find her sneaking sweets from my personal stash. Never caught her until after the fact, when I'd find cookie crumbs all over her shirt, or a little blob of chocolate by her mouth. For a genius, she was never very good at covering her tracks."

Grayson grinned. "She still likes candy. Just not as much, I guess. Prefers chocolate, the expensive dark kind."

"Well, blame me for inadvertently feeding her sweet tooth," said his father. "But blame her father for her expensive tastes."

"What's going to happen now that Alexander's gone?" asked Grayson, folding his pants and putting them away.

"Not sure, kiddo. I know Alexia's supposed to become the next family head, but she doesn't seem too interested in the job." His father put one of Grayson's favorite denim jackets on a hanger, and hung it in the wardrobe. "On the other hand, Alfred seems eager to prove himself. He'd become the next head if Alexia decides to step down from the succession."

"What about their money?" asked Grayson. He was dimly aware of the sort of intense familial feuds which happened over rich guys' wills, mostly from movies, and Dynasty episodes.

"The money would go to the twins. Alexander made sure vultures like Stanley and Catherine got absolutely nothing from Edward's Umbrella fortune. Good on him, because those two are fucking characters."

Grayson finished putting his stuff away, and dropped his suitcase inside the closet, which he only used as storage for all his retired action figures and toys. "Trust me," said Grayson. "Best thing you can do is just tell the twins, dad."

His father nodded. "You're probably right, kiddo. Honesty is the best policy."

"I think you'll be surprised at how well they take it."

"Hope you're right about that, Grayson." His father left.

Alexia had been holed up in her laboratory since they had arrived in Antarctica, so Grayson decided to visit. Alfred was there, clutching the railing, watching the ants skittering across the enormous tumescent hive, their swollen abdomens glittering like fat petroleum beads in the halogen glow. "They've multiplied," he said, making a face. There was a sound, of thousands of tiny legs scratching across the clay and sand of the nest, which resonated in the chamber, hanging in the air like the notes of a singing glass. "Christ, it's disgusting. Why does my sister like bugs so much?"

"At least it's not spiders." If it was one thing Grayson hated the most, it was spiders; he did not have an irrational fear of them, he just did not like them. He guessed it was something genetic, a congenital dislike passed down from his caveman ancestors, when spiders could mean certain poisonous death.

"If it was spiders, I'd send Alexia to a therapist and burn this room down." Alfred was an incurable arachnophobe. Grayson had, one several occasions, killed spiders for Alfred, who would flee the room until the spider was dead. And when Grayson wasn't available to kill the spiders for Alfred, Alexia would kill them instead.

"Well, unless she discovers something interesting in black widows, I think you're safe, Alfred."

"If she had a room full of black widows, I'd have my dear sister committed. For her own good." Alfred turned to him, his expression inhumanly patient. He wore a herringbone sweater and dress pants. "How was Raccoon?" he asked, conversationally.

"Great. I made a new friend. His name's Clarence."

There was something in Alfred's face, a subtle change in expression, that suggested he wasn't happy to hear that, and might have even been a little jealous. "What? Are we suddenly not good enough for you, Harman?"

"Oh, come on, Alfred. You and Alexia are my best friends. Even if you are an asshole." Grayson threw an arm across Alfred's shoulders, beaming. "But you're a lovable, awkward asshole," he added.

"Get off of me, you idiot," said Alfred, pushing his arm away. " _You're_ the asshole, Harman."

"Yeah, but that's beside the point, Alfred. Alexia still hanging out in her lab?"

"She's been in there since the moment you bloody landed," said Alfred, frowning. He wrung his hands, halogen crescents catching in his pale blue eyes. "I don't like it, Harman. I'm honestly a little worried. Alexia seems utterly obsessed."

"What do you mean, Alfred?"

"She's normally not this isolationist," said Alfred. "And besides, things have been strange since she's returned to the facility. You know, I saw that researcher Albert Wesker here, about a day or two ago? His visit was brief. Alexia stonewalled him, like she was hiding something. Normally, she dives at the chance of showing off the facility. It was all so strange."

"Why was Wesker here?" asked Grayson. He had not heard anything about Wesker's visit, but supposed he would not have heard anything because he was nobody important, just hired help. Still, Grayson could not help but wonder why Alexia had not mentioned it; then again, he had not seen much of Alexia since they had returned.

"Not really sure," said Alfred. "I know he wanted to talk to Dr. Bingham. But that's all I know."

Grayson could tell that Alfred did not actually know anything. Alfred, like Alexia, was a good liar, but Grayson had known the twins long enough that he had developed a particular talent for picking out their unconscious non-verbal cues. "I believe you, Alfred," he said.

"Perhaps you could try reaching my sister? You're dating her." Alfred gave Grayson a sour look, as if the thought of them together offended every one of his gentlemanly senses, and probably did. "She won't open the door for me," he added. "Me. Her own bloody brother, Harman. Her _twin_ brother, no less."

"I can try. Why I came down here," said Grayson, heading for Alexia's office. "Wish me luck."

Alfred scoffed, then disappeared.

"Yeah, get used to it, Alfred," he muttered to himself. "One day I'm gonna marry Alexia, and you'll be stuck with me forever." Grayson never told Alexia he wanted to marry her, mostly because he could not think of a way to say it without sounding like a creep; and besides, they were only teenagers, and marriage should be far from his mind. He still had Alexia's equivalent of high-school to work through, and then there was college. But he felt strongly about Alexia, and it was a feeling he could not really describe because it was so alien to him, so beautiful.

When Grayson reached Alexia's door, the first thing he noticed was how unusually silent it was. Alexia normally played music when she worked. But he heard nothing—not even footsteps, or the faint clink of lab flasks. Just the mad-skittering of ants.

Grayson knocked on the door as if it was rigged to explode if he knocked too hard. Nobody answered. He knocked a little louder this time. Nothing. His first thought was that Alexia had hurt herself, so he hurled his bulk against the door once, twice, then a third time, and managed to pop it off the hinges, tumbling inside her office. Alexia rushed out of the laboratory annex as if Satan was on her ass. She was not hurt, but she looked startled and confused.

"What the hell are you doing?" she asked, helping him up.

Grayson got a fistful of her lab coat, and accidentally tore the clamp of her Umbrella ID. It clattered to the floor. He stooped, scooping it up. "Sorry," he said. His hand hurt, and he noticed there was a nice cut on his palm, and probably some splinters.

She took the card and tossed it on the end table beside the door. "What _possessed_ you to knock my door down?" she asked, guiding him over to her desk. Alexia sat him down, then went to retrieve a first aid kit.

"I thought you were hurt. Alfred said you were locked up tight in here."

"I told Alfred I was busy," said Alexia, dragging a chair over beside him. She opened the first aid kit and tore open a packet of antibacterial gel.

"That son of a fucking bitch. He tricked me," said Grayson. Alexia took his hand and applied the gel, gently rubbing it into the cut. "I bet he fucking lied about Wesker too. I swear, I'm gonna get that asshole back for this. Gonna prank him so hard, and it's definitely gonna involve spiders."

"He's getting better at lying. But he wasn't lying about Wesker," said Alexia, barely suppressing a laugh. Once she had finished with the gel, she smoothed a band-aid over the cut. "Your cut is superficial, so that's the good news. You have a few splinters, but it's nothing some tweezers can't take care of."

"Sorry about your door."

Alexia produced a pair of tweezers and started to carefully remove the splinters, tossing them into the waste-basket beside her desk. "It's just a door, Grayson," she said. "I can easily have it replaced. Though I might need to invest in a metal one."

"How come Wesker was here, Alexia?"

"He wanted to speak with Dr. Bingham, and I told him no. That's essentially the gist of it. I don't know what he wanted with Bingham."

"Birkin come with him?"

"Thankfully not," said Alexia, shaking her head, removing the last of the splinters with intense concentration. She tossed the empty antibacterial packet into the trash, then dropped the tweezers into an iodine soak. "Hopefully I won't have to deal with Birkin beyond the domain of angry faxes and phone-calls."

"You really don't like him, do you?"

"Not one bit. William doesn't very much fancy me either, and I'm quite all right with that."

"That's fine. I fancy you," said Grayson, grinning.

Alexia suddenly became very awkward, as if something was bugging her. "Just fancy?" she said, and she had tried to frame it as a joke, a passing ha-ha, but Grayson knew there was more to it, that the question had some serious substance.

"You've been acting super weird, Alexia," he said, watching her. "What's going on?

"I just—I don't know. Nothing is going on, Grayson. How serious are you about me?"

Grayson was very serious about Alexia, and could not picture himself with any other girl because, when he tried, it just made him feel weird and uncomfortable. It was a kind of nauseous feeling, as if the idea of dating another female made him physically sick. He supposed most people would label his particular brand of love as an obsession, but he was okay with that. Everyone had obsessions, and his happened to be Alexia. "I'm really serious," he said. And for the first time, Grayson felt he could finally tell Alexia what he had wanted to tell her for years. "Don't get too creeped out, Alexia. But I'm pretty sure I love you."

Alexia stared at him, as if he had just spoken to her in some strange language. Then she smiled, and it was a genuinely happy smile. "Good," she said. "I'm rather sure I love you too."


	29. Interlude 10: A Killing

She had finally gotten the call from the Board, and they informed her that her motion for Bingham's termination had been accepted. It had taken a month of phone conferences and faxes, and a flight to Umbrella's headquarters in Raccoon, where she had personally presented her case to the entire Board of Directors and had explained, thoroughly, why she had motioned for Bingham's termination. She had even convinced the Board to exonerate Grayson from his contract, because he, and his father, had signed it under duress. The whole process had been long and unpleasant, like a very long court trial, but she had gotten her way, and that was all Alexia cared about.

She hoped she would never have to go through the process again. Alexia could still see the faces of the Directors, old and serious, watching her across the U-shaped table like a row of church gargoyles, their faces composed in looks of stony aloofness. It had been more harrowing than her PhD interview, and she had not eaten at all, or had slept very much, the week prior to the interview because she had been so nervous.

Alexia wondered if the Board had contacted Bingham yet, and imagined they had, though Bingham had not said anything to her about it; he had not even tried contesting the motion. She studied herself in the mirror and made a small adjustment to her lab coat and tie, and decided to go see him. There were several questions she wanted to ask before he cleared out.

When Alexia arrived at his laboratory, Bingham was standing over a body, which lay on the op-slab, opened like a purse. There was a tang of antiseptic and blood in the air. He wore an eye loupe rigged with a small flashlight, and dug around inside the corpse's chest cavity with the enthusiasm of someone hunting for valuables. His lab smock was stained with flowering patterns of blood, and there were red splatters on his procedure mask, as if he had been hit with arterial spray.

"So I received this lovely little notice in my inbox," said Bingham, tugging down his mask. He did not sound like a man who had lost his job. "From the Board of Directors themselves, no less. You're firing me. Well, _they're_ firing me. You're simply the middleman, I suppose. Middlegirl?"

"I want you _out_ , Dr. Wesker," said Alexia.

"Well, that's fine. I was just finishing some things up." Bingham put down his bloody forceps, his surgical gloves soaked red. "It's about time you finally realized who I was, Alexia. I dropped enough hints, I think. Suppose you're one of those sorts who aren't very good with ambiguity. Everything needs to be clear-cut for you, just like Edward."

"I figured it out when I read my grandfather's memoir," said Alexia.

"Oh, Edward wrote a memoir? About how he _back-stabbed_ me? Typical."

"I don't think he stole anything from you, Dr. Wesker. You lied."

"My girl," said Bingham, shaking his head. "I wouldn't lie about that. Spencer told me what he was planning. So I killed him. But don't worry, I'm not trying to wrest the company from your greedy little Ashford hands. I have no interest in running a business. I only wish to create."

"What do you mean _you_ killed him?" Alexia had always been told her grandfather had died in a freak lab accident. That Edward had the distinct honor of being the first westerner to die from exposure to the raw progenitor strain.

"Who do you think rigged his lab to leak?" said Bingham, and when he smiled, it was the coldest smile Alexia had ever seen. It was the sort of smile Alexia imagined Lucifer might wear, when he greeted souls at the Gates of Hell and informed them, still smiling, that their eternity would be a very unpleasant and painful one. "I killed your grandfather under the guise of an accident, and with Spencer's blessing."

"You're lying," said Alexia, through her teeth. "Lord Spencer would never do that to my grandfather. To our family."

"Greed can drive a man to do all manner of terrible things, Alexia. Even kill their friends," said Bingham. He walked toward her, menacing in the strange friendliness of his bearing. She expected that Bingham would try to kill her; but he stopped, a few feet away, that horrible smile still on his face. "It doesn't matter if you fire me, my dear girl. I finished what I came here to do: to create my magnum opus. My dear grandson..."

"If you do anything to Grayson—"

Bingham cut her off. "I've already done something to Grayson. Something great." It was then that Alexia saw Bingham's madness, bleeding through the hairline cracks in his veneer of professional coldness. "I came to this facility for him. Initially, I wanted to experiment on my son Scott, but his age proved too risky for the procedure, and I could not abide another failure. Grayson was healthy. Beautiful. He shares my DNA. He was the perfect candidate for Project Wesker. And now, thanks to the data I've gathered, I've made something truly great."

Alexia realized she could not let Bingham walk away now. She reached for a scalpel on a stainless steel tray beside the op-slab, keeping her hands behind her, where Bingham could not see what they were doing.

"Spencer wanted a cure for his illness. He was only a means to an end," said Bingham. "Though I suppose I do owe him." He bobbed his head side to side, as if he was deliberating something in his head, weighing the pros and cons. Bingham sucked at his teeth. Then he said, "You know your father was the one who put Grayson's name forward for Project Wesker? He saw it as a means to redeem himself, show the Board that he was not, in fact, an entire failure. That he could produce _something_. I agreed to let him take the credit, so long as he convinced Grayson and Scott to sign the contract. It was a fail-safe, in case things went legally south, as things in this company often do."

Alexia gripped the scalpel in her hand, but did not make her move yet. She wanted Bingham to finish talking.

"A shame you killed Alexander," said Bingham, sighing. "So eager to make something of himself, and that sort of desperation is a useful tool for someone who knows how to wield it." He shook his head sadly. "Nosferatu. What a funny name the old boy wound up with. Not really fitting, however, considering Nosferatu was a silent character, and your father wails and wails all night long, rattling his restraints like a condemned man seeking the attention of the feeder."

"James Marcus saw you at the party," said Alexia. "Why did he let you go? Surely he knows you killed grandfather."

"James Marcus has something coming, but that isn't my place to say. Certainly, he recognized me. But I'm essential, and Marcus knows that."

"If they know who you are, why did you change your name?"

"Does a man need a reason to change his name?" said Bingham. "Perhaps I grew bored of Martin Wesker. Perhaps I needed another name because I'd killed one of Umbrella's most prominent scientists. Perhaps I had a shady past I wanted gone. The world may never know—"

Alexia drove the scalpel as hard as she could into Bingham's neck, opening it, warm arterial spray splattering her cheek and lab coat. His eyes bulged, and he made a gurgling noise, slowly sinking to his knees. She left the scalpel in his neck, because she wanted to watch him suffer. Bingham groped at it, but he was losing too much blood too quickly, and would die soon.

"That was for Grayson," she said coldly. Bingham made a choking noise. Alexia felt nothing, watching him die like that, as helpless and pathetic as the dragonfly she had fed to the ant terrarium. Bingham deserved it, because she knew he would never truly leave Grayson alone. "It was also for grandfather, you miserable old fuck. For daring to insinuate that Lord Spencer had anything to do with your wild plans." She crouched on her toes and said, near his ear, "Karma is a bitch, isn't it, Wesker?"

Bingham made a wet dying noise; then he died, in a pool of his own blood. Alexia walked to the phone bolted to the wall and punched in the extension for Umbrella Security. "This is Director Ashford. I'm in Dr. Bingham's laboratory. I need hazard disposal."

The clean-up detail did not even ask about Bingham when they arrived in the laboratory and zipped him up inside a bio-hazard bag. Alexia knew the staff feared the Umbrella Corporation; they did not want to wind up like Bingham—dragged away in body bags, every trace of their existence burned away beyond the memories of their families and friends, or locked up in prison for illegal bio-experimentation, which carried a death sentence—or, if someone was lucky enough to strike a deal, a life sentence—in several countries.

Alexia left the laboratory and showered in the mansion, wanting the blood off her face, which had started to congeal into an unpleasant stickiness. Bingham was gone. Now she could focus entirely on her T-Veronica research, without worrying who he was, what his next move might be, or what else he might do to Grayson. But it was not entirely a good thing; though she looked forward to realizing her research, Alexia would still need to go into cryostasis for fifteen years. She had already started to build the suspension pod; in a few months, it would be complete.

The thought gnawed at her, and would not let go, even after she had dressed and left the bathroom. It trailed her like an evil stranger. Grayson would be twenty-nine when, or if, she ever saw him again, and she could not decide which was worse: that he might permanently exit her life, or that it would take fifteen years for her to see a face that had grown unfamiliar in its age. She decided both were terrible; though the thought that Grayson might be gone forever hurt more. What if he found another woman and, when she finally woke and went to see him, she found he had children, and a wife he adored? That hurt even more than the thought of him simply vanishing.

Alexia thought about it then, even though she did not want to. Grayson was older, had grown to look like Scott, and he was in a nice house somewhere—perhaps Raccoon, or somewhere in New Jersey—and had a pretty wife, and a child who looked like her. The child was just starting school, and his wife probably worked a good job, because Grayson did not care for women who did not care enough to work for their own money. He would never settle for a mooching housewife...

But there was no way to circumvent the fifteen years, and successfully bind the T-Veronica to her body. She had looked for alternatives. Cryostasis was the only way, and Alexia hated that it was the only way.

She walked right into someone. Grayson said, "Hey, Alexia," and hugged her.

"Grayson?"

"You would have seen me if you weren't staring at the floor, dork," he said, laughing.

Alexia pushed Grayson into the nearest room, which happened to be his room, and closed the door behind them. "I killed Bingham," she said. "I put a scalpel in his neck, Grayson. They took his body away to hazard disposal."

He did not seem horrified. "Good," he said, sitting on his bed. Grayson, like her, maintained a certain cool detachment from the world, and from the things that happened to the people in it. To most people, Grayson was aloof at his best, and completely uncaring at his worst. She was the only person he had ever shown any genuine warmth. He frowned. "I guess that means you'll be disappearing again to do your stupid ant research."

"Grayson, that isn't fair," she said, sitting down beside him. "It's my job."

"Well, you know what else isn't fair? Never seeing you because you're holed up in your lab." Grayson folded his arms across his chest, looking indignant. He muttered something under his breath that Alexia did not quite catch, but was sure it had been something angry. Then he said, "Sorry. I'm being pretty unfair."

"I'm sorry, Grayson. I really am." Alexia meant every word.

Grayson said, "Bingham say anything interesting before he died? Maybe about Marty."

Alexia nodded. "There was one thing," she said. "Martin Wesker killed my grandfather. Bingham told me. He said that Lord Spencer put Wesker up to it, but I don't believe a word of that."

"I dunno, Alexia. Spencer's kind of shady. Then again, I pretty much think all rich guys are shady."

"Lord Spencer is a close friend of the family's," she said. Then, "I also managed to exonerate you from your contract. You're welcome."

Grayson kissed her fiercely. Then he said, "This is why I love you."


	30. Part Three - Patient

It was nearly Christmas. Alexia had become a recluse in the last several months; Grayson had only seen her a handful of times, and she had looked tired and sick, and had not said much of anything to him other than she was sorry, and that she would see him soon. But soon never came, and then Alexia would vanish again. He would go down to the lab sometimes and ask if he could come in, but was normally met with silence, or another apology.

Eventually, Grayson had stopped trying to visit her laboratory altogether, and had consoled himself with Alfred's company. He guessed the distance Alexia had put between herself and them had mellowed Alfred to the idea that Grayson was, and probably would be, his only companion from that point on. They had even started getting along, or as well as Alfred was capable of getting along with people, which usually came in the form of infrequent insults, and very occasional praise. He was lying on Alfred's bed, staring at the rococo-style fresco painted on his ceiling, which depicted a blue summer sky, and several dragonflies flying among grayish-green reeds.

"Your ceiling is the coolest thing about your room," remarked Grayson, folding his arms behind his head. Alfred's room was pretty much empty, except for several bookcases stuffed with huge leather-bound tomes on military history, tactics, and war philosophy. It was more spartan than Alexia's room too, with blue walls and minimal furniture; though the furniture that was there was of the expensive, custom-made kind.

"Nobody is forcing you to hang around in here, Harman." Alfred was sitting at his desk, reading a hard-cover copy of _Art of War_ by Sun Tzu. Alfred pretended he did not want him around, but Grayson knew that, without Alexia, Alfred didn't want to be alone.

Grayson got up. "Christmas in a few days," he said. "You get anything for Alexia yet?"

Alfred looked up from his book, bookmarked his place with a folded piece of paper, then laid it on the desk. He opened a drawer on the desk and fished a small black jewelry box from it. "I ordered this from a jewelry store in Ginza," he explained, opening the box. Inside, on a white silk cushion, was the prettiest barrette Grayson had ever seen. It was all silver, cast in the shape of a dragonfly with ruby eyes. "I saw this and immediately thought of Alexia."

"Jesus, that's perfect," said Grayson, feeling envious. He had gotten something similar for Alexia, though, compared to the dragonfly barrette, it wasn't nearly as impressive.

"What did you get her?" asked Alfred, grinning impishly.

"You know how you have that ring for your family proof?" asked Grayson, pointing at the sapphire ring Alfred always wore. The Ashfords all wore family proofs that showed they were Ashfords: Alfred's was a sapphire, Alexia's was a ruby, and Alexander's had been an emerald. "I noticed Alexia's always wearing hers on her ties and collars. So I commissioned—with dad's help, of course, since I'm still under eighteen—this nice Italian leather choker for it. It's got this sharp-looking silver mount she can put her ruby on."

"Sounds like something my sister would like," said Alfred approvingly. He put the barrette back inside his desk and pushed the drawer shut.

"I hope she joins us for Christmas," said Grayson, frowning. He slouched against Alfred's desk, hooking thumbs in his belt-loops.

"Scott wouldn't let her miss it," said Alfred, amused. "He would drag her out of her laboratory before he'd let her miss a Christmas with the family."

Hearing Alfred refer to them all as family brought an involuntary and stupid smile to Grayson's face. "Yeah," he said, beaming. "Dad'd get her by the scruff of her lab coat and drag her, kicking and screaming, past all her subordinates, no fucks to give. It'd actually be hilarious." Grayson paused, studying an equestrian picture of an English soldier. "Hey, Alfred? How's things with Alexander?"

Alfred rubbed the back of his neck. Then he said, "Utter failure. The T-Veronica completely destroyed his tissue and mental faculties. He's just a mindless mutant husk right now. Did you hear what the researchers are starting to call him? Nosferatu."

"Why Nosferatu?" asked Grayson. "He look like Max Schrek now? Maybe Count Orlok?"

"Not even close," said Alfred, chuckling. "He makes all sorts of noises. I don't know why they picked Nosferatu, of all names, considering Nosferatu never made any bloody noise."

"So the T-Veronica wrecked him, huh?" Grayson felt a deep, painful pang of worry in his gut. He knew Alexia had been researching the T-Veronica, and that shook him because he knew Alexia, and knew how passionate she got about her work. "Alexia isn't doing anything stupid, is she?" he asked.

Alfred smiled. "Don't worry about Alexia, Harman. She knows what she's doing."

Alfred had a way of calming him down. It was like he was sure of everything he said, exuded such confidence that nobody could even begin to doubt him. Grayson could not be sure if it was just a natural gift, or if Alfred had gotten so good at lying that it wasn't difficult to convince people that he was right, and that they should not second-guess him. "All right, Alfred," he said. "You're her twin."

"Exactly," said Alfred. "Oh, Harman. I've been meaning to discuss something with you." He fully turned toward him now, watching Grayson with proud blue eyes. "I know you're still technically the equivalent of a high-school freshman, but the earlier you plan things, the better it will turn out for you. I was discussing your future with Scott. With my father gone, I'd be willing to pay for the rest of your schooling."

"What?" said Grayson. "What about Alexia? She's always been my teacher."

Alfred ignored the question. Instead, he said, "It will be at the private academy my family has attended, and has donated generously to, for generations. I will be joining you at the academy, of course. I'll also pay your tuition and material expenses for a university of your choosing. You mentioned once that you wanted to attend Columbia. Yes?"

It was true. Grayson, despite Alexia telling him that an English degree was absolutely worthless, wanted to get into writing of some kind. He wanted to do journalism or something related, maybe one day get his ideas down and published like his beat idols. Though he did not understand why Alfred was bringing this up now, or why he had skirted the question about Alexia. Something stunk about the whole conversation, but Grayson knew Alfred wouldn't talk. "That's really generous of you, Alfred," he said. Despite the weirdness of their conversation, Grayson was truly grateful; his father was paid well, but not well enough to send him to a place like Columbia.

"Despite how often we butt heads, I like you, and my sister likes you," said Alfred. He extended his hand, and Grayson shook it firmly. "I'm helping out a friend," he added, with one of his easy gentleman smiles.

"What about you?" asked Grayson.

"I'm thinking Sandhurst," said Alfred, lacing his fingers together. "A military education interests me a great deal. And I'm nearly done with school. I might not be as intelligent as Alexia, but I'm certainly more intelligent than the average boy. Should graduate by the time I'm sixteen, as long as things stay on course."

"You know, I can't help but detect a degree of fatalism in this dialog," said Grayson suddenly. "Like we're heading toward something rough and evil. What the hell is going on, Alfred? Does this have something to do with Alexia?"

"Don't know what you're talking about, Grayson," said Alfred. "It's just something to think about and plan for. In just a few short years, we'll be adults with adult responsibilities." There was something about the way he had said things that suggested he was holding something back.

"Yeah, sure," said Grayson, noncommittally. Then, "You know Martin Wesker killed your grandfather, Alfred?"

"Alexia told me," said Alfred. "Infected his lab. I bet father kept it a secret because he didn't want anyone knowing grandfather liked men. To father, such a scandal would have been a deep, irreparable mark on our family's reputation."

"No offense, I think Alexander's ineptitude was a lot more detrimental to your family's rep than Edward's personal preferences."

"I agree wholeheartedly," said Alfred. "I don't care what grandfather did behind closed doors. Alexander was what dragged our family down. Not my grandfather's sexual orientation. But you know how people of my breed get when it comes to scandals, Grayson."

"They get all riled and excited like a school of starving piranhas," he said. "Yeah, I know."

Alfred nodded. "Alexia also mentioned something about a memoir grandfather wrote," he said. "How Spencer had supposedly put Martin Wesker up to assassinating grandfather. Between you and I, I don't share my sister's fondness of Spencer. He probably killed grandfather because he was going to reveal company details in his memoir. That, and my grandfather founded Umbrella. With grandfather out of the way, there was nothing stopping Spencer from a taking over the company. Funny how he's the CEO now, don't you think?"

"What about James Marcus? Didn't he help found the corporation?"

"He did," said Alfred. "But Marcus has no bloody spine. He's more interested in his independent research than running a multinational conglomerate. Still, I wouldn't be surprised if Marcus turned up dead soon. I've noticed a pattern. Spencer uses people to the point they've given him their all, and then he disposes of them, like a fruit you've squeezed all the juice from. It's why I'm constantly fretting over Alexia." He shrugged, frowning miserably. "Like I said, I've never liked the old codger. Sooner see him dead."

"Why hasn't he done anything to you or Alexia? You're Ashfords. You gotta stake in this company," said Grayson.

"A stake," said Alfred, rubbing his knees. He leaned back in his chair, poising his right ankle on his left knee. The chair gently creaked underneath him. "We're children. We don't pose a threat to him just yet. But give it a few years, and I wouldn't be surprised if Alexia and I wound up in Spencer's cross-hairs."

Grayson could not help but think there might be some truth to that. Spencer had always rubbed him the wrong way, as if he was constantly scheming behind his dull, too-polite smile.

"It bothers me how Spencer has Alexia wrapped around his finger," said Alfred, shaking his head. "She thinks the world of him. I just hope everything Bingham said turns out to be a fantastic lie, and that everything we just spoke about is nothing more than idle conjecture."

"So do I," said Grayson. "Hey, I'm gonna head back to my room, Alfred. Drop by if you wanna watch a movie. I got some new ones."

"I will, Harman," said Alfred, flashing a smile. He resumed reading _Art of War_ , and Grayson left.

Back inside his room, Grayson checked on his gift for Alexia, which he had left on his desk. He still felt a little one-upped, and hoped Alexia would like it, even if it wasn't as fancy as Alfred's silver dragonfly barrette. Then he put the gift down and turned on his television. He popped in his _Poltergeist_ tape without turning on the lights, and lay on his bed, watching the static on the television within the television, laughing because the little girl in the film looked exactly like Alexia had at five or six-years-old...

Scary movies weren't the same without Alexia, Grayson thought. She would curl up with him, and giggle and make scared noises. It somehow took away from the experience, and Grayson found he could not really enjoy the movie without her. He was halfway through the movie when his phone rang, which excited him, because the only people who knew the mansion's extension were his father, him, the twins, and Umbrella brass; he doubted the brass would ever want to talk to him, and his father or Alfred could just come to his room. Grayson picked it up and said, "Grayson Harman speaking."

It was Alexia, and he was so happy to hear her voice again. "Grayson, would you mind coming down to my laboratory?" She sounded uneasy, as if she expected him to hang up.

Part of him wanted to hang up because he was angry—Alexia had been gone for months, and had given him nothing but apologies and excuses on the rare occasions he did see her—but he could not bring himself to do that to her. "Sure," he said evenly. "I'll be right down."

He went to Alexia's laboratory. The ant hive was thriving now; the ants must have bred in the thousands since he had last been down here. He could see the Queen moving sluggishly among the swarms of workers and drones like a barge; the Queen was bigger and redder than any ant he had ever seen. Grayson puzzled over what species it might have belonged to, and decided it was probably some weird Australian variant, or maybe something from Africa or South America, because insects seemed to grow pretty big in those parts of the world.

Grayson knocked on Alexia's new door—she had replaced it with something sturdier—and said, "Alexia, it's Grayson."

He heard the lock chunking out of place. The door swung open, and Alexia beamed at him, and let him inside. "I didn't think you'd come," she said, walking back to her laboratory annex. She was studying the ants in the cylindrical tanks here.

Erik Satie was playing on her record player. The music gave a weird vibe to the room, as if he had just stepped into some gloomy break-up scene from a French art-house movie. "You've been acting weird." The phrase had evolved into one of those cheap throw-away lines like _you know_ , _get it_ , or _no offense_. "Like you're constantly on edge. You sick?"

Alexia put her clipboard down, shook her head, and hugged him around the middle. She did not say anything; she buried her nose into his T-shirt and stayed like that for a long time.

"You sure you're not sick? You hurt yourself with this T-Veronica shit?"

She shook her head again and mumbled into his shirt, "I'm fine." Alexia looked up at him, and kissed him like she always did; but there was something different about the way she kissed him this time, like she was saying good-bye.

"Bullshit," he said. "I know that look."

"I'm tired, Grayson. I've been working a lot," said Alexia. She did look tired, as though she had not slept well in weeks.

"Okay," he said.

"Grayson? Where do you think you'll be in fifteen years?" She studied his face, as if she was searching for some particular cue.

"That's a real specific question," said Grayson, eyeing her. Then, shrugging, "I dunno. Haven't really thought about it. Fifteen years is a long time, Alexia, and I haven't even finished school yet. You know I'm more of an in-the-moment kinda guy. Why?"

"Just answer the bloody question, Grayson."

"I dunno. I guess if things work out the way I want them to, I wanna get married. I'll be, like, nearly thirty then or something."

"Married. To who?"

"She's kinda short and nerdy," he said, grinning. Alexia blushed. Then Grayson said, grinning so widely now that his cheeks started to hurt, "Oh, come on. You know the answer, Alexia. You're just fishing."

"You mean—"

Grayson playfully smacked her in the forehead with the heel of his palm. He said, "I mean you, you dork. Jesus."

"You can't be serious," she said, giggling. Alexia rubbed her forehead, then pressed it against his shirt, hugging him around the middle again. "I'd be a horrible wife, Grayson."

"And I'd be a horrible husband. See? Birds of a feather flock together." Grayson paused. "God," he added. "I hate that saying. Sounds so goofy. My dad likes to say it a lot. It's up there with 'kiddo'."

"You wouldn't be a horrible husband," said Alexia, smiling. "You're my best friend, so we're already starting off on a good foot. We share interests. You're certainly not bad-looking either. I think you'd make a lot of women jealous, Grayson."

"Cool. Works out for you, then," he teased, kissing her on the head. "Your family would probably disown you, though. Marrying the rough, blue-collar yank? Yeah, definitely wouldn't go down in Ashford history as the greatest thing to ever happen." He did not actually give a shit about what her family thought of him, but had felt an obligation to point it out anyway. Grayson supposed he just wanted to hear Alexia say that she did not care.

"I don't care. I'll be the head of the family soon." There was something sad in her face now, as if shadows had suddenly crawled into the delicate lines, and the soft shapes of her features. She let him go. Then Alexia asked, "Could you wait fifteen years, Grayson? To make that happen for us?" It was a serious question.

"I'd wait thirty years," he said, and meant it. "Whenever you're ready, Alexia. Obviously not right now. We're kids still. But down the line? Sure. I'll be the most patient guy in the world for you."


	31. Part Three - End - The One Who Got Away

Two weeks passed since Grayson had unofficially popped the question to Alexia. That was their joke anyway, that he'd proposed, even though Grayson was pretty sure it did not count because they were kids, and he'd not actually given Alexia a ring.

Alexia had finally emerged from her laboratory and joined them for Christmas. His father was big on Christmas, played all his favorite Christmas tracks on the record-player: Bing Crosby's _White Christmas_ , Frank Sinatra's _Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,_ Dean Martin's _Winter Wonderland_ —and that was just the tip of a very big and festive iceberg. It drove Grayson crazy; he hated Christmas music, and so did the twins, who looked as if they badly wanted to shatter his father's records and toss the shards into the fireplace.

But the twins humored his father's steadfast holiday-worship, because they did not want to piss on his bright, stupid parade. His father celebrated the holiday with a whirlwind energy Grayson only ever saw on Christmas. During Christmas, the world was a great, happy place to his father, and all that bad shit out there, like wars and starvation, were gone, and there was only a world of terrible music, bright colors, and tinseled pine trees.

His father had even decorated the mansion. Luckily, his dad did not have tacky tastes, and the place actually looked nice, like a Macy's display, and not a storage room where Santa had chucked all his unwanted holiday bric-a-brac because he'd run out of room inside his workshop. There was a large tree in the foyer, which his father had ordered from Europe (Grayson assumed it was probably Norway, or maybe Sweden or Switzerland, because those seemed like places someone would find a huge Christmas tree) and had decorated. The ornaments were glass-blown and hand-painted, and probably the nicest-looking ornaments Grayson had ever seen, all whites and golds and silvers, and not at all like the tacky plastic bulbs and neon lights his aunt had used to decorate her fake tree. There were even real candles on the tree; Grayson never knew how his father did that without burning the entire thing down, but it looked really nice.

Alexia came downstairs, smiling. She was dressed nicely, in a black cardigan and a white lace dress, and wore the silver dragonfly in her hair. "Snooping around for your presents?" she teased.

There were several gifts piled under the tree, wrapped in tasteful-looking paper and ribbons. Grayson grinned. "Saw right through me." He pointed at the barrette in her hair. "God, that looks pretty in your hair, Alexia. I see Alfred couldn't wait to give you his gift."

"He was quite insistent," she said, shaking her head. Alexia looked like one of her porcelain dolls. Her fingers brushed the barrette in her hair, and she beamed. "Do you really like it, Grayson? I do."

"Yeah. It looks great," he said, and nodded. Grayson glanced at the tree. "Dad'll probably kill me if I open my presents without him. It's one of his stupid Christmas rituals."

"I'll tell him I coerced you into it," said Alexia, and took one of the packages from under the tree. It was somewhat large, and flat. "This one is from me." She passed it to him. "Go on."

Grayson took the gift and smirked. He shook it, and it did not make much noise; it was probably clothes. He untied the ribbon and peeled it open, revealing a plain white box. He opened it and nearly choked. It was a precise replica of Michael Jackson's _Thriller_ jacket, cut from actual designer leather. "Holy fucking shit." Grayson tried it on. The jacket fit perfectly, though the sleeves were a little baggy; but he was okay with that, because they looked cooler when he pushed them up anyway. "Alexia, I don't even know what to say. Goddamn. Thank you. This thing is awesome."

"You kept talking and talking about the jacket, and I just happened to overhear," said Alexia, grinning.

He hugged her. "I got you something too," he said, reaching into his back pocket. He wasn't sure if Alexia would like it, but hoped she would. The leather was designer, and, with the pure-silver mount, had cost him a good bit of money.

"You didn't have to, Grayson," said Alexia. Most people said that to be polite, but still expected a gift. But Alexia meant it; she had been given everything by Alexander, and had all the money she could ever need.

"I wanted to," he said, handing her the jewelry box. When her face light up, Grayson laughed. "It's not an engagement ring," he joked.

Alexia smirked, opening the box. She made a small pleased noise—that was a good sign, it meant she did not hate it—and took the choker out. "It's gorgeous," she said.

"You can adjust it too, so when you're older you won't have to buy a new one," he said, helping her put it on. Grayson took the ruby off her collar and mounted it on the choker; the gem easily clicked into place. "It's for your family proof. See?" He cracked an enormous smile. "You're always wearing it on your ties and collars. So I got you this." He paused. "Well, dad put the order in because I'm under eighteen. But I paid for it."

"You paid for it? Grayson, this must have cost you a small fortune," said Alexia, looking at him with huge blue eyes.

"It wasn't so bad," he said, his cheeks and ears burning. Grayson felt embarrassed for some reason, and thought it was maybe because of the way Alexia looked at him. He studied the toes of his sneakers, hands in his pockets, feeling like a small, bashful child. "I set aside a little bit of money each paycheck. Took a couple months to finally save up enough cash, but I did it. It was worth it. Seeing you grinning like that was totally worth it."

She grabbed his arms, because she could not reach his hands in his pockets, and said, "You could have asked Alfred for the money, Grayson. You know we wouldn't tell you no."

Grayson looked at her and shook his head. "Nope. I wanted to spend the money I earned," he said. "It wouldn't have been my gift if Alfred gave me the cash. It would've been his gift, and I would've just been the delivery boy. Besides, I don't like handouts, Alexia. You know that. I work for every dollar I get. That's just how dad raised me."

"One of the things I like about you, Grayson. Your absolute stubbornness." Alexia smiled and kissed him then, and it was a long, slow kiss. She had even, for the first time, slipped him some tongue, and it was the weirdest, most pleasant sensation he'd ever felt, and wanted more of it, egging her on with his mouth.

A thought scudded across his brain—something about where had Alexia learned how to kiss like that, and whether or not he was doing it right—but it slipped away before he could really think about it, because he was so distracted by Alexia's fantastic kissing, and the wriggle of her tongue in his mouth...

"Whoa, whoa, _whoa_." His father appeared, getting them both by their scruffs and prying them apart as if they'd been glued together. "No," said his father, giving them a hard look. "You are way too young to be doing stuff like that, kiddos. I ought to belt you both."

"I could have lived a thousand lifetimes without ever seeing that. And I would have been a happier man for it," said Alfred, covering his face, as if the sight of Alexia kissing anyone had been the most shameful thing he'd ever seen—and it probably was. "Good God, Harman. You both were practically cannibalizing one another. Have either of you _no_ sense of propriety?"

"Nope, not really," said Grayson, licking his lips.

"Where are you two learning this garbage from?" said his father, giving them his sternest dad-look. He smacked Grayson upside his head, and hard. "You ought to know better than that, Grayson. She's thirteen. You're only fifteen. You both don't need to be doing that kind of shit."

Grayson rubbed his head. It stung, but it wasn't painful. "Sorry, dad," he mumbled. He did not mind taking the rap for Alexia; though his dad hadn't smacked Alexia since she was seven, when she'd thrown her last tantrum. "Saw it in this movie once." He grinned fiendishly.

"I should smash your VCR, but Alfred bought it for you." He stared at Grayson. There was an angry hardness in his face. Then his father said, "The last thing I need is you knocking Alexia up, and you both winding up as parents when you're barely teenagers. Shit like that happens, you know. Kids are fucking careless these days."

"Over my dead body!" said Alfred, from the staircase.

"We weren't having sex, Scott. I started it," said Alexia.

"Princess, you know better than that," said his father, practically cooing. Whenever his dad talked to Alexia, he always got soft and amiable. Alexia was his little girl, and he did not like to yell at her because, as far as his father was concerned, she was his only daughter, and a daddy's girl. But when it came to Alfred and him, his father was a mean son of a bitch. "You're playing with fire."

"Scott," said Alexia coolly. "This is not the bloody Victorian age. I can control myself, and so can Grayson. Enough with the archaic nonsense about girls and boys not being able to control their hormones. It's utter bullshit."

His father sighed. "I just worry," he said.

"I kissed him like that because I wanted to, not because I couldn't stop myself."

His father nodded. Alexia had a way of shutting people down, and she'd just pulled the trick on his dad.

The rest of Christmas passed without further awkwardness. They ate dinner, which had been a huge spread of turkey, various side-dishes and deserts. His father had even made the twins treacle tart, which had been really good. After dinner, they'd opened the rest of their presents (Grayson had gotten new shoes, records, and VHS tapes) and were ushered outside, so his father could take their picture in front of the mansion. Around midnight, the twins went back to their rooms, and Grayson helped his father clean up. It wasn't until 2 o'clock in the morning that Grayson had finally made it back to his room for bed, and fell into a deep sleep, still fully clothed.

Two days later, there was an unsettling vibe in the mansion. It was the sort of quiet calm that usually preceded horrible news, and Grayson felt his stomach knotting into a huge nauseous, tangled mess. He found his father standing in the foyer, his face was pale and sick. He was talking to someone at the door; Grayson did not recognize the voice, but did glimpse a lab coat, and decided it was probably one of the researchers. Grayson felt sicker.

His father shut the door and passed him, without saying a single word. He disappeared upstairs, and within minutes, he saw Alfred rushing downstairs. Alfred looked as if he'd been crying, but had finally reached that point where the tears had dried up, and had left his face flushed.

"What happened?" asked Grayson.

His father looked at him, and it was the most pitiful expression Grayson had ever seen. His father looked completely broken, a gaunt and wasted ghost of himself. "Alexia. I'm so sorry, Grayson," he said, and put his large heavy hands on his shoulders. "It just happened. She's—" his face twinged—"God, I'm so sorry."

Grayson suddenly felt very hollow. He did not even feel sick anymore. Just cold and empty.

"I need to make preparations for her funeral," said his father, and looked as if he was trying very hard not to cry, because in his father's generation, crying was something that men did not do, even if Grayson thought the machismo philosophy was bullshit.

He did not even bother holding it in, and Grayson cried. It had only been two days, and now Alexia was gone. He'd always been aware of how transient life was—he had seen people die before—but to have someone he loved die, to slip from his life in just a matter of forty-eight hours, was something so unreal that he could not be entirely sure he'd not dreamed it. Grayson started thinking about everything they'd ever done together, and saw every little detail in those memories, so painfully real in their clarity that, if he closed his eyes, he was sure he could trick his brain into thinking he'd time-traveled to a place where Alexia was still alive...

Alexia's closed-casket funeral was two weeks later, in Beaconsfield. Ashfords he'd never met before had come to the service, all red-haired or blonde, and extremely proud of themselves. They gave his father and him disdainful looks that conveyed they did not care at all for their presence. Stanley, a man who looked like a red-haired Winston Churchill, scoffed when Grayson passed him, and he wanted to punch Stanley square in his enormous pot-belly, which strained against the buttons of his waistcoat. But this was not the time or place for fighting and hot tempers, so he ignored him, moving away.

The funeral was held on the grounds of the Ashford's ancestral manor. They'd moved there in the wake of Alexia's death, and the Antarctica facility was in the process of shutting down and closing its doors for good. In a way, Grayson was glad it had worked out that way; there were too many memories in Antarctica. Here, in England, he could start fresh—somewhere Alexia had not left an imprint, a clue that she had once been a person and had lived there.

There was a light rain coming down. Grayson glanced at his father. His father wasn't the same, and neither was Alfred, since Alexia had died. His father had become colder, more cynical toward the world, and Alfred had practically withdrawn into himself. Grayson felt more alone now than he ever had, like something that had been packed away and forgotten. He stared at Alexia's black casket, and the tears welled up again, an uncomfortable lump forming in his throat. He had planned to marry her. He had loved her more than anything. Love like that did not come easily to people, if at all, and now it was gone forever.

Grayson was sure there would never be a girl who could measure up to Alexia, and make him feel that love again. Nobody would ever compare to Alexia. She'd been perfect.

The ceremony lasted about two hours. Alexia's casket was interred inside the mausoleum where Veronica Ashford had been buried two hundred years ago. Grayson must have stood outside that mausoleum for hours, staring at the words ALEXIA ASHFORD etched on the marble plaque, because, when Alfred told him it was time to go inside, the Ashfords had all gone away, and the sky was already turning dark. His suit was soaked too, but he did not care. Right now, Grayson wanted to be buried in that mausoleum with her.

"Grayson," said Alfred, touching his shoulder. "You're going to get sick, out in the rain like this."

"Just let me fucking stand here, Alfred," he snapped. "I don't care if I get sick."

Alfred frowned, but conceded. "All right," he said, and hugged him. Then went away.

Grayson stood there for a long time, still staring at the plaque, thinking that, if he stared long enough, maybe he could make it disappear. He had been concentrating so intently on the plaque that he didn't even notice the strange man standing beside him.

The man was tall, his beard and hair the color of anthracite streaked with silver. He wore a black suit, and sunglasses like Albert Wesker, and had a large tracheotomy scar on his throat. He looked familiar, but Grayson could not say how, and figured he must have seen the man at the funeral. He was probably one of the Ashfords, come to pay their respects to Alexia.

"A pity she died so young," said the man. He laid poppies on the mausoleum, among a collection of roses and other flowers.

"Yeah," said Grayson.

The man looked young, and could not have been much older than forty. He said, "Was Alexia someone special to you, young man? I noticed you've been standing here for hours."

"She was my girlfriend," said Grayson, struggling to keep the tears down, because he did not want to cry in front of a stranger.

"I'm sorry," said the man genially, and patted Grayson's back.

"Yeah," said Grayson. He did not want to talk right now.

The man smiled emptily. Then strode away, ghosting into the night.


End file.
